


101 of Dwarven Haircare: Combs, Razors and Other Scary Stories

by jeza_red



Series: 101 Verse [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Facial Hair, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hair, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:01:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the fill on hobbitkink. </p><p>Dwarf hair is different, okay? </p><p>Cultural shock and confusion with strangely funny results. Also a thread of understanding between two confused parties and a little comb that is more precious than whole Erebor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Link to the prompt in all its glory: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=5430849t5430849

He felt sick just looking at it and, yet, Fili was strangely fascinated.

He also felt like a creep, sneaking around boulders and trees to stare at their tiny hobbit burglar sitting at the river’s edge in naught but his skin, – but that was a minor thing right now. They were all in various states of undress at this point, for it wasn’t a common occurrence on this journey to find a secluded, _safe_ spot to bath in.

And after escaping the goblins, battling with the orcs and wargs – all of them sweaty, smeared in sooth, blood and guts of their opponents, -the  Company _needed_ a bath.

Gentle river at the bottom of the rock the eagles have left them on was a godsend. Fili was in the water before he’s managed to dislodge his sticky shirt, Kili and the rest of the Company right on his heels. 

Their hobbit, though, was a little less enthusiastic, even if his face brightened considerably at the sight of clean water. And when it reddened considerably at the sight of naked dwarvish backsides – which was quite hilarious in itself.

But they’ve all washed and dried, then washed and dried again.

Now, as the day neared the end, all dwarves were seated on the grassy bank, busy with stoking fire and taking care of their wet hair. Fili and his brother were not greatly inconvenienced by the task – to the eternal shame of the younger of them – as their beards were short and manageable. Kili barely took time to brush his own hair with a small comb made of bone that every dwarf kept close to their heart, and chased to help their uncle deal with his long, unruly mane.

Fili snorted in amusement, intending to follow his lead when he’s finished his own braids. His gaze softened at the sight of their unmovable uncle, great Thorin Oakenshield, sitting so patiently while his hair was being brushed and arranged by rough fingers. Kili was young and unskilled, but his gestures were full of care and Thorin took them as that – as a sign of deep affection. Just as any dwarf would.

This picture brought smiles on more than one face, – Bofur even chuckled a little, busy with making sure that Bifur’s hair won’t catch on the axe sticking out of his forehead. The Ri brothers were probably the most amusing thing to watch, however. With Nori whining and complaining all the time as Dori stood behind him with fingers tangled in the red mane, recreating his complicated coiffure. The oldest brother easily ignored complaints sent his way, taking time to explain his every move to very attentive, if slightly dishelved Ori.

Fili felt his face stretch in a smile while he looked at his companions, who at this point were more a family than just friends, as they took precious time to care for their loved ones. Even Balin found a moment to run a hand over his brother’s wild mane laughing easily at the exasperated look he’s got in return.

It was all good, then.

There was just one thing missing.

Namely: their burglar.

So Fili took it upon himself to find the hobbit before they lose sight of him yet again. For such timid creature, Bilbo Baggins was entirely too skilled at finding trouble where none else has managed to.

His short search brought him to the small, quiet spot hidden behind a big boulder where the river was slower and the shore less steep. There he’s found their hobbit, sitting on a fallen log, busy with doing something to his face.

And that something, after closer inspection, froze Fili in his place.

Was Bilbo… _shaving_ his face?

Fili felt cold shivers going up and down his spine at the sight.

Up until this point they’ve all assumed that hobbits simply don’t grow beards. Bilbo’s face was always smooth and, well, slightly girly. Kili even commented on it, glad that he won’t be the last one in the Company in terms of facial hair; silly sod that he is.

They never thought about it, Fili was sure, just took it as one more strange thing about hobbits – like having round doors to their homes and wearing nightgowns, and crying after lost buttons. Something exotic and curious, but essentially unimportant.

But to have this belief turned on its’ head like that…

Fili felt sick. But he was also fascinated.

Didn’t it hurt? Or was their burglar made of stronger stuff they’ve first assumed?

What about that small blade he used? It was sharp enough to cut through _hair_ – who made it? Was it elvish? It had to be elvish, they were masters at overcompensating. Ha, ha, my blade is the sharpest, even though I am scared to use it, ha, ha!

But, the biggest question remained, why?

Why would Bilbo do something like that to himself?

Was he punishing himself or mourning like uncle Thorin who kept his beard from growing for decades now?

Why would anyone…?

Fili wanted to just walk to the hobbit and ask – demand answers – but he wasn’t sure if the sight of the blade won’t be enough to make him faint. He was a brave dwarf, but there were lines one shouldn’t cross. And staring at the _smooth beardless_ face of their burglar would be too much right now.  So he turned around and marched back to the impromptu camp where Kili has just about finished with bushing Thorin’s hair for him and stared curiously at his nearing brother.

Fili suspected that he looks shaken, he felt blood leave his face at some point, but he tried to smile for his family anyway. His feet carried him over to Kili – who barely had time to react when he was burdened with an armful of clingy brother.

“Fili? What is it? Brother?” asked Kili with growing alarm, trying to make sense of the situation. “Come of it, tell me what’s wrong!” 

“I’ve seen something scary,” whispered Fili into his shoulder. “Shut up and let me hug you.”

Oh, well, when put like that… 

Kili adjusted his hold on Fili and managed to shrug a little in response to his uncle’s questioning look. When the hobbit joined their party, freshly scrubbed and beaming like a young maiden, Fili clung tighter, but didn’t say a word. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was impossible. Unfeasible.

Really, he could not do it.

Kili stared at his fingers that were currently tangled in the blond curls of their hobbit – while the hobbit in question was sitting on a fallen log in front of the dwarf and humming some sort of a song. He didn’t look like he was in pain and Kili was at least grateful for that – a small thing in this hopeless situation.

He looked to Balin, who was the closest, wordlessly asking his for help, but the old dwarf only smiled encouragingly and didn’t offer any pointers. Few of the company were paying attention to his doings, their stares curious and a little wary. Only Fili’s expression was outright challenging, and Kili would slap him over the head if he wasn’t currently busy. Uncle Thorin was also looking in their direction, but he was much more discreet about it – as was only proper when looking intently at Bilbo’s face, waiting for any sign of pain or discomfort that would signal his nephew’s shabby work.

Kili didn’t want to consider what would happen, if he’s managed to make this situation worse than it already was for the poor hobbit.

The root of the problem was just at his fingertips – a stray burdock seed that somehow managed to hitch a hike in Bilbo’s curly mane. The Halfling didn’t realise it was there until late evening when the Company was finally allowed to stop for rest. A tired, half-hearted cuss from the gentle creature caught everyone’s attention and when the problem became known there has been much sympathetic hissing and head-shaking.

As the burr located itself snugly on the back of Bilbo’s head, the hobbit couldn’t remove it himself. He’s asked Ori for help – probably because the youngest member of the group was so skilled with needles and pen and so his fingers were quite daft. And it would be a good idea, if the boy didn’t stammer and blush, like a child, muttering excuses and hiding behind his brothers. Kili could understand it, not everyone were bold enough to touch the hair of someone outside of their immediate family; Ori was outstandingly shy.

But even so, Thorin’s nephew was never going to forgive him for it. Because, following a general agreement, Kili was delegated to take his place. Because he was the second youngest and his fingers were slender and agile, and his eyes were sharp.

But fiddling with the bowstring and looking out for enemies couldn’t be considered a fair preparation for _this_.

The burr has somehow managed to entangle itself with golden locks creating an absolute mess that was hard enough to make sense off – before even thinking about teasing it out. Kili had high hopes, he was young and prideful, but soon enough he realised that the task is beyond his capabilities.

And the hobbit was so… small. Their burglar was a hardy little fellow, but he was still so much smaller and weaker than any of them. And his hair was so thin and silky, so delicate – it actually made Kili blush when he put his fingers into it for the first time. It was so very awkward, because he liked Bilbo – everyone did, even Uncle! – but he wasn’t family and this level of intimacy was hardly something he’s had much experience with. Kili didn’t know the hobbit well enough – was he too rough? Was he pulling? Was Bilbo as embarrassed by the whole situation as he was?

He had no clue how hobbits dealt with their hair. Was anyone usually helping them? Were they any special skills that Kili was lacking?

He was a sweaty, nervous mess within few minutes and it was simply embarrassing.

“I don’t think it will go out…” In the end he decided to surrender to inevitable and at least try to save his face. “It’s stuck like a barnacle and the more I try to get it out, the deeper it hides. I am sorry, Mister Baggins.”

He didn’t even want to look at the disappointed looks on his friend’s faces. But what could he do now? If they leave the burr alone, it should fall out after few days, nothing to it.

“Oh, that’s a pity,” Bilbo muttered, surprisingly light-hearted, reaching with one hand to confirm the assessment. He patted his hair lightly and turned to the young dwarf with a smile. “Thank you for trying anyway.” And just when Kili was about to smile back he said something else: “You can cut it off, then.”

Kili chocked and staggered back as if struck.

What?

Silence suddenly fell over the camp as all eyes turned to the hobbit, no one believing what they’ve just heard. Bilbo seemed to miss the quiet terror on his friend’s faces as he reached into his pocket and pulled out something that, at a quick flick of the wrist, unfolded into a rather small and flimsy blade.

Kili would laugh at it, if he didn’t just hear Fili cursing, pointing at the object and whispering something quick to their Uncle. Whispering to Thorin never ended well.

“Well?” Bilbo turned to him, brandishing the blade. “Could you? I don’t want to look like a scarecrow when we finally encounter some civilised folk.”

How could he smile while saying that? Joke about it?

It was surreal.

“Kili?”

“I…” Kili backed away even more, hands raised and eyes wide. “I am… not really good with… that. With cutting… hair. I mean… why would anyone…”

“Are you alright?” Bilbo frowned and turned to Balin, sitting closest to them, who was obviously much better at covering his shock. “Did I say something strange? I mean…”

“Oh, no, Master Baggins, not at all,” the old dwarf coughed a little at the scanting glare his brother sent him. “Kili there is just really not skilled at this kind of… things. He is simply afraid of hurting you.”

“But it’s just hair,” and there was the frown again.

“Just hair…?” Ori’s whisper could be heard over the uneasy silence that only seemed to thicken.

“Well, someone tell the lad to gather himself together,” Dwalin started getting up, unhappy, but determined. “He was asked, so the honourable thing to do…”

“I will do it.”

And the silence fell again.

Uncle Thorin stepped from between the Company, face grim and serious, shooing his nephew away with a gesture. Kili sent him a grateful look and hurried up to his brother, who was too shocked by the turn of events to crack even one joke at his expense.

Instead both of them – well, twelve of them, - observed as their leader takes his place behind the nervous looking hobbit and accepts the small blade. Thorin looked the tiny weapon over with a rather doubtful expression, but didn’t waste time. His fingers dived into the golden curls quickly localising the tangled mess and he brought blade to it…

All breaths stopped for one terrifying second.    

…and their hobbit didn’t scream in pain. Oh Mahal, he didn’t even squeak!

Kili could see his Uncle’s face; astonishment evident in the widening eyes and deeply taken breath.

Another cut. Kili could feel his brother’s hand closing over his and all he could do was to tighten his fingers in response.

And Bilbo Baggins, a gentle hobbit from the Shire, didn’t even mutter. He started to hum instead!

Third cut. Uncle’s moves were precise and quick, but also infinitely careful. Kili could easily imagine these same hands brushing and braiding his mother’s hair in a show of love and affection. He felt fairly uncomfortable watching something like that now – because it was clearly different for their burglar, who seemed almost… uninterested.

Soon enough the last lock was cut and he burr was finally freed with precious little hair attached to it – a thing that the Company found rather impressive. Tiny blade was once again hidden safely in the snug little pocket and Thorin Oakenshield looked grave and troubled… until Bilbo turned to him and bowed a little with a small smile on his lips.

“Thank you, Master Dwarf,” he said. “That was rather helpful.”

And then he just wandered away towards his sleeping bag. As if nothing happened!

Kili could not read the expression that has taken over his Uncle’s face, but a snort from Dwalin assured him that the can live with that mystery unravelled.

“But… he is so _small_!” he whispered to his brother instead. “How can he…?”

“It’s that knife,” Fili whispered back. “It is sharp enough to cut through beard when he shaves!”    

“He _what_?!”


	3. Chapter 3

Oh no, this was impossible! He couldn’t lose it just like that!

Fili all but stalked along the rocky shore, eyes trained on the ground under his feet, hands wringing with worry.

The Company was already out of the barrels and in the process of smashing them into small pieces that would be used as firewood or makeshift weapons or _whatever he didn’t care he lost it oh gods he lost it and he was doomed!_ Mother will kill him!

Uncle Thorin will look at him with that unimpressed look that was somewhat worse than bodily harm, because it made Fili’s insides shrink and his eyes water with shame. 

He was on the verge of crying now, because he already walked around the place three times and his loss was still, well, lost! He always carried it close to his heart, where he would feel it. He could swear that he still had it when they’ve escaped Thranduil’s prison!  He’s checked twice!

What a disgrace for a proud dwarf, what a shame on his head.

Fili carefully evaded Kili’s questioning look and attempted to keep out of his Uncle’s way entirely, trying to appear less desperate, but it was a hard act to follow. Especially when one was surrounded by dwarves as sharp as Balin or, indeed Nori, – who already seemed to understand his plight and find a sort of sadistic amusement in it.

“Oh, are you looking for something?”

Fili almost cursed out loud when a pair of hairy feet suddenly appeared in his line of sight. He stopped himself at the last moment because Mister Baggins was a gentle hobbit and also the one that just saved them from mentioned prison. After saving them from the spiders. And that after saving Uncle Thorin form Azog’s henchman.

All in all, Fili kept Bilbo Baggins in high esteem so cussing in front of him was simply disrespectful and entirely undignified.

“Ah, well…” he also didn’t want to lie to the Halfling, but his tongue decided that no excuse is good enough and stuck to his teeth. “Um… I am really…”

The hobbit smiled a little at his floundering and it was one of those friendly smiles that tended to ease the tension in any member of the Company it was directed at.  How did this small creature become so valuable to them, no one knew, but then no one dared to question it either.

“You see, I found this on the shore after we, well, disembarked,” Bilbo lifted one of his hands to show Fili his find. “And I thought that…well, it probably belongs to one of you… is it yours?”

Fili, for all his dignity and hard-learned pose, could gladly hug their little burglar where they stood and kiss both of his cheeks. For there, in that small hand, was his loss, his most precious treasure.

He took it back with trembling fingers, exhaling deeply at the feel of smooth bone and familiar weight on his palm.

“Thank you, Master Burglar,” he bowed deeply, surprising the hobbit into stepping back. “I am in your debt. Whenever you need help, just ask.”

“Oh, that’s really nothing…” Bilbo chuckled nervously, light flush staining his damp cheeks pink. “I am glad to help, truly, such a small thing, please don’t mention it.”

Fili raised his eyebrows at that.

Small thing?

“You have no idea…” he muttered, more to himself than to the hobbit.

None the less he was heard and the embarrassment on their burglar’s face changed into curiosity.

“No idea about what?”

Well, he was a Halfling and they had different customs concerning their appearance, Fili concluded. Like not caring about braiding their hair and, he shivered at the thought, _shaving_.

One quick look was enough to confirm that the Company was halfway done with setting up a small camp little ways downstream. He could even see Kili who was positively stuck to Uncle Thorin’s shadow. Good, even if Dwalin was eying them with amusement, Kili needed reassurance at the moment and no one would begrudge him that. Why, Ori was shadowing Dori step for step and no one even batted an eyelash.  They were safe for a while, so maybe it was time for some explanations.

“Come, Mister Baggins,” he pointed to the fallen tree that would make for good place to seat and serve as a cover from curious eyes. “Let us sit so I can explain.”

*

“You see,” Fili started after a moment of deep thought. “Firstly I would ask you a question. Do hobbits comb their hair?”

Bilbo looked at him half-surprised and half-amused before nodding carefully, unsure where was he being led.

“Of course we do,” he answered. “Twice a day, at that! Well, more if you’re lass, I imagine, as they grow their hair long and like to fuss over it. My mother, for example, could waste a morning away just sitting in front of the mirror with her brushes. She’s had a pretty set of them, too, gotten it form my father, you see.  All bent silver and horse’s hair. They’ve had to cost him fortune!”

Fili stopped a sight trying to escape him. What wouldn’t he give for a proper mirror at the moment!

“Well, you see here, horse’s hair wouldn’t do much good for a dwarf,” he explained aloud. “Our hair is too strong to be tamed by something soft like that.”

“Oh, that’s why all your combs are made of bone and metal?” Bilbo perked up, putting two and two together.

Fili nodded and showed his own; the loss that would cost him a lot of grief if it hasn’t been found by their tiny burglar. Said burglar looked over the strange object with new interest and Fili felt a bit of pride in the way his small face brightened with appreciation.  It was a fine comb after all!  

It was made of white bone and shaped like a half-moon, with rounded corners bound in silver and adorned with tiny blue jewels. The sides of the bone were carved into intricate pattern that came together to make up his family’s crest: the emblem of the house of Thror.

“It’s beautiful,” admitted the hobbit and Fili felt like hugging him again. “Did you make it?”

“Oh no, it was made by my father.” He tried to keep grief out of his voice as much as he could, focusing instead on the explanation. “It is a custom among our people to make them for our children when they’re born. Every dwarf has one of these; they’re our most treasured possessions.”

It was a little embarrassing, – or would be if he was in the presence of another dwarf, but the blond has finally started to see the difference between their respective worldviews and it made him bold.

“It is unthinkable to use another’s comb, you know, it’s a grave insult to even touch it without their permission. To lose your own is considered to be a very bad omen. Our hair and beards never stop growing, not until we die, and some say that even then it still goes on,” he revealed to the astonished creature by his side. “After our flesh turns to dust, bones and hair is all that’s left of us.”

“Oh,” a quiet murmur. “So it has to be quite important, isn’t it? All those braids and clasps and, well, all _that_.”

“Well, of course! Beard is a symbol of age and status, Mister Baggins, it is a priority to make it look presentable and keep it from tangling. Because we don’t ever … _shave_ … as it’s unseemly not to mention painful,  making sure our hair stays in order is very important…”

“Wait! Painful?”

And those blue eyes could not get any wider, staring at Fili as if he just grew a second head.

“Cutting hair... it hurts you?” Bilbo asked with shock.

“It _doesn’t_ hurt you?” Fili returned the sentiment easily.  

They stared at one another for a whole minute, both at loss for words.

“Well,” Bilbo found them first. “It makes sense then.”

Fili had a harder time coming to terms with the fact that hobbits apparently didn’t _feel_ their hair as dwarves did. It would explain shaving and that incident with the burr – the one that left Kili feeling nauseous and unhappy for a day. 

“Thank you for the explanation,” the hobbit smiled at him again, with that warm smile, and patted his arm lightly. “I am glad that I stumbled on that,” he pointed at the comb still clasped tightly in the blond’s hand, “and it didn’t get washed into the river. Now let us go and warm ourselves by the fire.”

Fili stood up obediently and followed this strange, incredible creature to the camp where the rest of the Company was resting, all rather subdued in their moods even if relieved that they are free again.

Kili’s head instantly perked up and he smiled widely, calling out to his brother.

“Where have you been hiding?” If there was an anxiety in his voice, he did well to hide it.

“Oh, nothing worth of interest,” Bilbo called back before Fili had a chance to open his mouth. “Mister Fili was just showing me his comb.”

The camp froze at that and Fili suddenly wished that the earth would open and swallow him whole. He felt hot blush climbing up is face, up his neck, all the way to the very tips of his ears.

When the whistles and cat-calls began – not to mention scandalised looks from Balin and Gloin, and Dori who was torn between giggling and trying to cover Ori’s ears – he was so embarrassed that he couldn’t even laugh at his brother’s gobsmacked expression. Even at the way their hobbit turned scarlet and spluttered, understanding that his innocent remark wasn’t so innocent in this particular company.  

And the worst of the worst, Uncle was looking at him. But not with disappointment, oh no, it was pure undiluted _amusement_.

In this particular situation: Fili would rather have disappointment. 


	4. Chapter 4

For the first time in about a year – since the start of their journey – Thorin allows himself to relax.

Maybe it’s not smart, to lay his trust into hospitality of Men, but he can’t help it. His body is exhausted and his spirit too tired to keep him going. He needs rest.

They need rest. His companions, his nephews, and his burglar.

Men of Laketown provide them with rooms that have beds, and tables that carry enough food to sate them all, and ale strong enough to lighten their worries. They give it freely, happy to be allowed to do so, and Thorin think it would be disgraceful, if he was to refuse.

So he looks to Dwalin and gives him a miniscule nod – and the Company relaxes and lowers their guards for a precious moment. They have to rest and replenish their strength, for the biggest trial is still awaiting them and it would be cruel to deny them that little bit of relief before it.

And, in truth, his eyes take joy in watching his Company, – his friends and family, – eat and cheer. Thorin’s heart grows when Balin’s limp disappears and when dark shadows around Gloin’s eyes recede. It calms him down to see young Ori with a quill and parchment, and with a chance to sit down and write of their journey for the first time in a long while without looking over his shoulder in fear.  And he will never admit it, but it warms him to see that Fili and Kili stop treading on each other’s shadows, that for a moment they're not plagued with fear of losing the other.

Men of Laketown are gracious hosts and good people and for once Thorin has nothing unsavoury to say about their kind. He is just grateful.

And he is most grateful for a chance to stretch his battered body in a tub full of scalding-hot water and let his mind drift for a while, his skin soaking the comfort and heat. How he missed that! Missed a chance to unbraid his hair and wash it properly, in private, like a proper dwarf.

The faces of his nephews when they were showed to the bathing chamber will stay with him until the end of his days. Such delight and relief he’s hardly ever saw on them.

And the expression on the face of his burglar won’t be far behind.  

His burglar…

Thorin thinks about the hobbit often. One has to, on a mission such as this, keep a constant eye on the smallest and weakest member of his Company. To think of his soft body that required heat and food, of the way his bare feet stumbled and his blue eyes widened in horror. The Company was as strong as its weakest member and it was a duty of the leader to look out for them.

First with irritation.

Then with surprise.

And then with appreciation.  

Because what Bilbo Baggins lacked in physical strength and knowledge of the world, he clearly made up in sharp mind and nimble mouth. Their burglar was canny and quick on his toes, and they all had to acknowledge it at some point. And after that it was easy to look at him with care instead of irritation. To protect him from harm because he was a comrade, not a baggage.

After Mirkwood they all fretted when their hobbit fell ill. Warm welcome in Laketown eased their minds in more than one way – Bilbo would have care there, medicine and warm clothes they couldn’t spare him with in the wild.

It was shameful for Thorin that as a leader he was unable to provide such basic comforts for one of his own, – but it was a long time ago when he’s made peace with his various shortcomings. Taking Men’s kindness was not as painful for his pride as watching the Halfling in the throes of fever, helpless.

Women of Men of Laketown took care of Bilbo without a word, with curious and tender glances, as if they were tending to a hurt child of their own. The Company chuckled at that for some time, at the way their proper and respectful hobbit turned red in the face whenever one of the Big Folk turned to stroke his head.

Thankfully no one dared to try it with the dwarves. These people knew which boundaries not to cross.

Good. Not all of them were as kind as their Halfling.

*

After a bath and a hearty meal Thorin found his way to the common room of the house they’ve been allowed to stay in. It was big and richly furnished, with dark wood and soft rugs on the walls and floor. There was a big heart that blazed with light and his Company decided to sprawl around it.

Thorin counted all heads and grunted with satisfaction when he came to twelve. All was well.

Indeed, as soon as he found his place on a rather comfortable bench by the low table his nephews appeared at his elbows with matching grins and eager eyes. They were also freshly scrubbed and neatly clothed, their hair dry and braided. They looked askance of him and Thorin could do nothing else than smile at them and nod. He fished out his comb from the pocket at his chest and handed it to Fili, who took it from him reverently and went about brushing his uncle’s hair.

Kili in the meanwhile handed him his pipe and settled himself on the side, raising his own comb to Thorin’s unruly beard.

It grew longer than he was comfortable with and he will have to see about having it cut again. The eve of the Smaug’s Siege was coming and he would mourn his lost home hopefully for the last time.

Soothing motions of the comb in his hair and gentle fingers on his face lulled Thorin into some sort of a pleasant doze. He felt safe and cared for, if only for a moment, and it was easy to imagine his dear sister brushing his beard and his dearest mother standing behind him. She would _tsk!_ at the state of his wild mane, but she would smile as she tended to it. She always did smile so kindly.

He came awake as his nephews changed places to start on his braids and their single-minded focus made his eyes turn tender and soft. He looked over his Company and the looks he got back were enough to force a reluctant smile on his lips.

It was his Company, his family, his dearest friends, and every night he prayed to Mahal that he won’t have to lose even one of them in the upcoming trial. He didn’t have hope that they’ll all come out of it unscathed… but he hoped that they will come out of it alive. Nothing else would be fair.

“Where is our burglar?” He asked quietly, removing the pipe from his mouth for a moment. “Has he eaten with you?”

Fili nodded on his left, tongue stuck between his teeth as he fought with some stubborn tangle.  

“Mister Baggins looked well at the meal,” it was Kili who answered, always eager to please. “His colour is back and he polished his plate in a blink! But it tired him… he is sleeping now.”

“Good,” Thorin stopped himself from nodding at the last moment. “He needs his rest.”

The untold part that the three of them heard nonetheless spoke:  

_He will need all his strength when the Day of Durin comes._

But that was something they tried not to think about. Not yet.

“He handled himself rather splendidly so far,” Fili felt it prudent to note. “Almost like a dwarf, our Halfling is.”

Kili nodded enthusiastically and even Thorin had to agree with a quiet grunt.

“Well, except the beard,” the youngest pointed out. “And chest hair.”

The prince almost chuckled at that. Kili was living in a state of constant misery caused by his scant facial hair, and he didn’t yet fall into all-out despair only because his chest was as furry as his brother’s. It was quite amusing and…

Wait.

“Where did you have a chance to see Bilbo’s naked chest?” Fili voiced his uncle’s concern, voice teasing. “Something you’re not telling us, brother dear?”

Kili flushed pink for a second, but came back to his feet quickly enough.

“Well, well, brother, jealous?” He teased back over his uncle’s head. “Don’t worry, I scarcely had the opportunity to show him my _comb_ yet.”

And that particular memory was something Thorin treasured above much else.

Their hobbit was a respectable creature who knew little about dwarves and so his smooth face turned such sweet scarlet when he deciphered that particular euphemism. It took all of Durin prince’s willpower not to burst out laughing at his horrified expression.

“We agreed not to speak of it,” grumbled Fili, his cheeks curiously pink. “It was a mistake, he didn’t know! I was just trying to explain to him our customs.”

Another few minutes fell into comfortable silence as brothers finished their task and Thorin nodded at them in thanks. They flopped on the bench on both sides of him and pulled out their own pipes.

“That little blade of his, though,” mused Fili. “It is not as sharp as I expected.”

“That’s because his hair is much softer,” answered Kili threading his free fingers in the air. “Like rabbit’s fur…  Wait, how do you know that?” He looked to his brother curiously.

Fili’s eyes twinkled mischievously and his hand flashed to his pocket – to appear a second later with a small folding blade clasped tightly in it.

Thorin almost choked on the smoke from his pipe while Kili squeaked like a small child. “How did you come to it?” he demanded to know.

Fili, instantly ashamed, shrugged. “I took it when women of Men were about to throw away his old clothes. I thought he will miss it so I decided to keep it safe for him.”

Thorin raised his hand and his nephew relinquished the blade without protest.

The prince remembered well the weight of it in his palm, the way it swished open and close, the sharpness of it. He opened it now and tried the edge on his thumb. It wasn’t sharp enough to damage his beard, but it cut through skin with ease.

“He shaves his face with it,” supplied Fili with wonder. “It’s strange to watch.”

Strange? How about terrifying?

Their burglar was such a small, soft creature; his skin was smooth and supple. And yet he fearlessly held blade to it – to his _face_! What if one day his hand slipped? What if he hurt himself? Head wounds bleed profusely and were difficult to treat. And to mar that gentle face…

Deep in thought, he folded the razor and put it in his own pocket. He barely trusted their hobbit with a sword, after all. This… _toy_ will have to be considered seriously. 

Fili and Kili followed his movements with their eyes and nodded in unison, understanding his plight.  They were always smarter than given credit for and understood him without words.

“He has the softest curls, tough,” Kili mused, small smile playing about his lips. “It’s the most curious thing. Shame they tangle so much, he would be rather handsome otherwise.”

“Oh yes,” Fili agreed readily. “If only we had a way to help our burglar look more presentable.”

“Indeed, brother. After we re-take Erebor many women will come and for our dearest Bilbo to greet them in such state of disarray… he will be mortified, surely.”     

“Such a proper creature as him.”

Brothers continued to scheme out loud and few heads turned their way in curiosity. Thorin fought not to smile at their antics and thought quietly to himself _why not?_ It seemed long overdue.

His gaze caught a dark glint from under furry hat and the prince nodded to Bofur, his face decisive.

The miner-turned-toy maker smiled brightly in response and nodded back.

Yes, it was long overdue. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, angst. Beware.

It’s quiet.

So quiet.

Bilbo steps into the tent and a part of him marvels at the silence around. A few minutes from there, a couple dozens of steps to the East and one can still hear moans and shouts; one can get swept up by the commotion that flows like a rapid torrent on the edges of the battlefield. Elves and Men and Dwarves are flowing beside one another without a word and without a glance, carting wounded, gathering bodies and weapons stewn all over the plain like forgotten toys.

Yet here, in the tent of the King it’s quiet.

Bilbo can’t decide if he’s happy about it or not.

Thorin Oakenshield rests on the low cot assembled in a hurry out of crates and barrels _(“And isn’t it amusing? Isn’t it hilarious? Barrels again!”_ Bilbo’s mind tries to tell him). His powerful frame unmoving, still and broken.

The hobbit dares to step closer. There’s a pile of bent metal that once was a shiny cuirass, scraps of mail and cloth that are stained red and black. He tries not to look at them. But there’s precious little else to look at otherwise. The body on a cot is calling him and his eyes can’t stray too long.

He almost trips on a discarded scabbard and barely catches himself in time, and the movement is enough to awake his wounds. His arm is stiff at his side, forearm bound tightly and smelling of some Elvish ointment. His back is a map of bruises, his feet are covered in small cuts and scrapes, and half of his face is swollen and tender.

And still, he considers himself lucky.

His eyes water, but he tries to tell himself it’s from pain, – it’s not a lie, but convincing himself that the pain is physical is hard. He walks to the cot and in his mind all the words he wants to say swirl and dance around each other and he can’t grasp any of them.

He would like to apologise. He wasn’t a burglar and stealing from his friend, from his King, left him with a taste of ash in his mouth.

He would like to scream at the fool in front of him. All he ever wanted was to make it all better! He wanted them all to live!

He wanted Thorin to live and be the King he dreamed of being.

But he has no strength to yell, no strength to accuse and demand. He is weary beyond words.

So he stands by the fallen King and looks at his face, and his throat is useless anyway. His smart tongue is stiff as a piece of wood and words have all but left him.

Thorin’s face is pale and bruised. His long dark hair is tangled around it, sticky with blood, likewise his beard. And that moves something in Bilbo, something near his heart starts swelling and it hurts. Hurts so much. Because it’s so wrong. It’s all so wrong!

Thorin lying so still while he has the gall to stand, to live, to breathe!

A King under the Mountain shouldn’t be so! Not with his hair so dirty and unkept…

For some reason it is the last straw. His throat clenches and he turns around, eyes searching and finding a bucket of water left by the entrance to the tent.

He hauls it closer to the cot and goes about finding a cloth, a piece of blanket, something cleaner than his own clothes. He finds a linen rag and dunks it in the cold water, wrings it until it’s as clean as he can get it and then brings it to the dwarf’s head.

Gently, with trembling fingers, he touches Thorin’s cheek, trails the wet cloth over his blood-stained beard. Slowly the moisture softens it and after a few moments it’s possible to wipe most of the dried blood off.

“How could they leave you like that?” Bilbo whispers to the King as he works patiently, diligently. “With your hair in such state… how unprofessional.”

His fingers tremble whenever they touch skin and he has to stop himself from snatching them back. Because he knows that if he allows himself a moment to panic… it won’t stop there. He will step back and his legs won’t stop, they will carry him out of the tent, out of the camp and away. They won’t stop until he is safely tucked away in his hole. And Bilbo can’t allow that. He won’t allow that!

He is a Baggins and Bagginess’ always see things to the end!

He won’t run, not anymore. He won’t spend the rest of his life thinking of _what ifs_ and _maybes_! Pretending to be respectable as his heart shrivels and dies under the row of shiny brass buttons!

He signed the Contract and pledged himself to the King Under the Mountain and he will stay here, in that strange, hateful land until he deems the terms fulfilled.

When he decides that the beard is clean enough he moves the cloth to the tangled mane of black and silver. He has to help himself with his wounded hand and it stings, it hurts, but Bilbo tries to ignore this pain. He painstakingly undoes the braids on the sides of the dwarf’s head, paying close attention that he doesn’t lose any of the beads and clasps.

“Fili and Kili put so much work into these,” he whispers as his bloody fingers fight with an exceptionally stubborn knot. “You would do better to respect it, you know? They were…”

His voice catches at the words and he has to swallow them instead. Then he has to shake his head for a bit, because tears blur his vision and when he finally calms down sufficiently he sees the enormity of the task in front of him.

The hobbit casts a look around the tent in search of anything that would help him, not knowing what that would be. His trembling hands and a wet cloth won’t be enough for this much blood, he knows it.

“If I ever needed a rake… “ he mumbles tiredly.

And then his hand falls on the small pocket of his coat and Bilbo stills.

With no small amount of wonder he pulls an object out of it, surprised that he didn’t lose it on the battlefield, that it survived his tumbles and falls and all the chaos almost unscathed.

It’s a comb. A simple affair craved of light wood. Simple, but not crude. It’s half-round and the teeth are quite short, but the sides of it…

Bilbo’s eyes mist again and he has to clench his teeth to stifle a cry that wants to escape his throat. His bruised fingers bring the comb to his chest and he hugs it with all his remaining strength.   

 

_“ ‘Ere ya go, Master Baggins,” Bofur smiles at him and hands him something. It’s small and light, but Bilbo’s hand trembles as he takes it. “Company’s decided that you need to look all presentable-like at yer meeting with the dragon!”_

_Bilbo can’t take his eyes of the comb resting in his palm. Couple of months ago he would scoff at it, thinking he’s being made fun of. Couple of months ago a respectable hobbit from Shire would smile insincerely and pretend to be pleased at the gift._

_That hobbit would be an idiot who doesn’t know the real meaning of the humble object in his hands._

_Bofur’s smile grows as he stammers his thanks and a moment later there are two thumps on his back that almost sent his sprawling._

_“Now our ladies won’t mistake you for a scarecrow,” teases smiling Nori._

_“And maybe one of them will snatch you away and set you straight, Master Burglar!” Gloin chuckles with mirth._

_Bilbo chokes and his gaze lands on Thorin, grateful and a little wet. Future King inclines his head and smiles a tiny smile that makes Bilbo’s heart flutter._

 

It’s stained with blood now, one of the teeth is shorter than the rest, but the carvings are all intact. The pattern of flowing lines, - so different from harsh dwarven designs, but similar enough  not to be mistaken for Elvish, – marks both sides of the comb, fluid and graceful.

They made it for him. His Company.

Because every dwarf carries one close to his heart throughout his life and they decided that he deserves to have one too.

Silent wail chokes him for a moment before he regains his bearing and goes back to work, this time armed with more than a cloth.

It goes faster, like that, if still dreadfully slow. First soak the cloth, wet the knots until they give and then comb most of the blood out. He works without stopping and without thought, not looking anywhere beside his fingers and matted hair under them.

Bilbo loses track of time somewhere halfway through, completely engrossed in his task. If his body lets him know he should lay down it’s ignored, the pain and hunger and exhaustion are pushed to the furthest corner of the hobbit’s mind for the moment.

“You are such a stubborn dwarf…” He speaks words without thinking, to fill the pressing silence in some way. “But that’s like repeating myself, right? Small blessing that your beard is short at least. I now, I know, I shouldn’t say that. Fili… he explained to me why. And I think it’s stupid, you know?”

The hair is as clean as he can get it, so he combs it once more, careful and gentle, spreading it on the crude pillow to dry.

“Why do it if it hurts you? Kili would do anything to grow a beard like that and you cut it? Completely senseless.”

When it’s all done, his fingers still twitch and tremble, so he uses his comb to separate four even strands and starts braiding.

“I don’t promise it will be perfect,” he swallows his pain and wipes his eyes with the back of one hand. “I mean, I’ve never done it before… but I watched you dwarves for the last year or so and… and I have keen memory… and Balin explained so much… about those blasted beards of yours. I think… I think it will be good enough to seem presentable…” He chokes again, this time it takes a little longer to push it down. “I know that you would rather… rather have them do it… after all I am just an… undersized thief,” he tries to smile at that, to find humour where there is none. “And I am not family… or anyone important… but everyone else is busy… so you are left with me.”

“I think that is enough,” a raspy whisper responds to Bilbo’s mumblings. “I think it’s more than he would’ve dared to ask for.”

The hobbit startles and the comb falls from his stiff hands. He turns around and his battered ribs scream in protest.

Fili steps from the entrance of the tent, slowly and with care. He is limping a little; the gash in his thigh is bound tightly, but the pain is clearly visible on his bruised face. Left hand is bound across his chest in a sling and his head is swathed with bandages, left eye completely hidden.

His face is ashen, but the smile on his lips is sincere.

Bilbo tries to protest when the prince bends down to pick his comb form the ground, but is waved away.

“Don’t lose it, Mister Baggins,” Fili orders him kindly. “Bofur and Bifur worked hard on it.”

“You all worked on it,” Bilbo manages to whisper. “Don’t think me stupid, dwarf.”

That gets him a startled chuckle and one-handed embrace that makes Bilbo’s heart cave in on itself.

“Good job you did here,” Fili pulls him to his feet and pushes him to the exit. “But you have to rest or we will never hear the end of it from Gandalf.”

“But…” the protest dies on his lips.

He did all he could here, more than he should perhaps. There was no place for him at the King’s side.

“My brother sleeps two tents to the left,” the blond tells him quietly. “He looks a mess…  and with this,” he raises his bound arm, “I can’t do much to help him. He will die of shame if any lass from Iron Mountains sees him in this state.”    

Bilbo actually chuckles at that.

“You are both so vain,” he says, staring at his little comb. His own treasure, worth more than all the gold in Erebor and beyond. “A lesson in humility will serve your brother well. “

He stalls and they both know it. He did all he could here. He did more than he should – here and before the battle. He meddled into matters not his own and he is so tired…

“My brother will need all the lessons life will deem to bestow upon him.” Fili looks to the hobbit with pleading in his one unhurt eye. “But I would have him feel some comfort while he heals. Please.”

And what can he say to that?

“I will go to him.” Nothing else will be good enough. “As long as you get some rest too.”

“I will,” Fili promises casting a weary glance on the still form of his uncle. “As soon as I can.”

Bilbo looks at the young dwarf and allows himself a moment to marvel at the view.

When he met him, all those ages ago ( _ages? It certainly feels like ages_ ) the blond was a smooth talking rascal, a child by any standards. Eager to make others laugh and to make his uncle proud.

Now a prince sits in front of Bilbo Baggins, an heir to the throne of Durin, tired and weary, but as regal as Thorin Oakenshield could ever be. With one hand in the sling and the other buried in the thick hair of his uncle’s dark mane, he looks dignified and hurt and lonely, and Bilbo’s heart aches for him.

But there’s nothing for them left, but to wait for the unconscious King to open his eyes and draw a deeper breath.  

He walks out of the tent with a last lingering look at the sleeping figure.

 

          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I am made of milk chocolate. I didn't make it to the end>_>
> 
> Because I'm a softy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, okay? I know. It's just that Dis invited herself in and I had to make space for her because she's awesome.  
> Also, Thorin is a stubborn dwarf and I want to give you all a satisfying conclusion to the story:)

When she sees that strange creature for the first time it’s in the Chamber of Healing where her youngest son has been laid to rest and recover.

She is weary after the long travel on horseback, her clothes are dirty and her hair in disarray, but her steps are sure and steady as she flies through stone corridors that she kind-of remembers.

Dis, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror is finally home and yet she doesn’t care to even look at it properly. Memories stir in her mind, trying to rise, trying to push her into melancholy, into stopping for a moment to look and let her heart grow fond and her eyes misty with remembrance.

But she ignores them in a hurry, for her heart is heavy with worry and her eyes are misty for completely different reason. 

Balin, who met her at the gate, assured that her treasure is safe; a little chipped, a little worn, but safe and in good hands.

Didn’t he know?

Didn’t he know that there were no hands _good enough_ to handle it but her own?

Dwarves and Men step out of her way readily, some bowing, some startled into uneasy silence. She pays them no mind. Like a raven guided by its sixth’s sense to find home, like a blind bat that doesn’t trust its eyes, she follows where her heart tells her to go.

She finds the room by instinct alone and she thinks it’s only natural for a dwarrow mother – to be able to find her children whenever they hide. There’s no door to push, there’s just a high archway and an old faded curtain separating Dis from her treasure. It would be so easy to swipe it aside and run into the chamber, but she stills her hands. It would not do to rush like that, to appear before her children so dishevelled and short-breathed, unable to call their names.

No, she is Dis, daughter of Thrain, and her sons are healing. She won’t dare to cause them worry now. No matter her own fears, they need strength – and she will provide it.

Long time ago she has learned how to serve as pillar of strength for her people. Thorin taught her well, - her indomitable brother was made of courage and will, of honour and sacrifice. She could hardly allow herself to be any less than that.

She rights her hair and brushes her beard with fingers that only tremble little, rights her clothes to look as presentable and composed as it’s possible after her mad run through the city. And that is then, as she puts her hand on the curtain, that she hears a voice from behind it.

“No, no, not like that. This one goes under so this one can go over.”

And her heart skips a beat, for the voice is a little rough and scratchy around the edges, but there’s no pain in it at all.

“You don’t need your thumb in there… here, fold it in and it will help you to keep the strand better.”

It’s her son. Her Fili, who sounds older than she remembers, more mature than two years ago when he left on that damned mission.

“Why do I have to be the doll here?”

And her Kili, bright and as full of life as he’s ever been.

Both of them there, just behind that curtain.

Both of them speaking.

Alive.

It’s with trembling fingers that Dis touches the heavy fabric and gently pushes it to the side. Not much, just enough to peek into the chamber, to see with her own eyes and calm her heart before they look at her. She has to make sure they are alright, if she’s ever to be strong now.

So she lingers in the corridor and looks trough the small slit into the room where her older son sits in a stuffed armchair (from the Winter Rooms, her memory supplies). His face is marked with fading bruises and one of his eyes is hidden behind a swath of fabric; his right hand is secured in a sling across his chest, but he is smiling. He is happy.

 His brother is laid out in a bed piled high with warm furs and embroided pillows, dark head covered in bandages – just like both of his hands and shoulders.

And then Dis’ eyes widen in surprise, for there’s one other in the room with them.

The most curious creature, no bigger than young Gimli, sits on the side of Kili’s bed and braids his hair under a careful, amused watch of Fili who sits just by and gives him pointers. For a moment she thinks it’s a dwarrow child, for a moment she thinks it to be an exceptionally small human. But then her eyes catch the sight of golden curls and pointed ears and naked feet covered in… fur.

She makes a surprised noise that gives her away. And it’s the small creature that looks at her first.

His face is not young, she finds surprisingly, and he has a set of very nice blue eyes that widen in shock.

“Thorin…?” he stammers, but Fili corrects him immediately.

“Mam!” He all but yells and he’s up from the armchair in a blink.

Dis has a moment to open her arms and he is there, in her embrace and she holds him close with an iron-wrought grip that Aule himself would have trouble breaking. She steadies him when the vertigo hits and when the sobbing starts. She feels his fingers tangling in her hair and her beard, and can’t help to pull his forehead into the crook of her neck, as she’s done countless times when he was a small lad. 

“ _Mam_?” Unsure voice of her youngest calls quietly and Dis looks up to him with her red-rimmed eyes.

He is so thin, she realises, so pale. Straining on the bed with his eyes glassy and lips trembling, a moment away from trying to stand up and join them. Even from where she’s standing, Dis can clearly see how bad of an idea that is, so she pulls Fili with her and they both land on the bed, sitting heavily. As soon as she’s in the reaching distance, she has two armfuls of hurt, sobbing, laughing boys. Her beautiful sons, her most precious treasures.

She tangles her fingers into their hair and pulls at their braids to keep them close.

They all completely forget about the little creature that’s nowhere to be found.

 

*

 

Thorin is the next step on her way.

She stays with Kili until the boy gets tired and falls asleep. Healers that come into the room soon after tell her that her son’s head is still not in good enough shape for long periods of activity – and she sees it in their eyes, the astonishment that he _can_ be active at all. That he survived a wound that would kill many others in his place. And she doesn’t have to be told how close of a call it was.

When Kili finally succumbs to exhaustion ( _but not before getting a promise out of his mother to be there when he awakens_ ) she asks Fili to lead her to her last treasure.

Thorin’s room is located in the same wing, just a little ways to the East. It’s closer to the healer’s quarters; more defensive, better hidden.

Her heart tightens with every step when she understands that her brother’s state is still considered uncertain.

On the way Fili tells her about the Battle, about the short period of time when no one knew if his brother will wake up, when the healers weren’t certain if his eye is salvageable. When no one gave Thorin a chance apart from his brave Company that never stopped believing in their King. Fili told her about the old Oin who cursed and shouted, and in the end simply rolled up his sleeves and worked on his Uncle for a day and night without rest, sewing and cleaning and pulling his body together with determination that astonished even their own healers. Those who knew the dwarf, however, never lost their nerve, making sure that he was uninterrupted and helping when he needed it.

Dis listened to every word, never letting her son out of her embrace. He seemed determined to stay under her arm too.

A full month has passed from that time and yet Thorin is still bedridden. Just recently he’s gained enough strength stay awake for more than an hour at a time. Just recently the pain-numbing potions stopped clouding his sharp mind.

Dis listens and shudders at the thought how close she came to losing the last of her family on that wretched plain. She is proud of them all, her brother and sons, and their incredible, brave companions, but her heart was filled with dread for so long that now it’s slow to dissolve.

When they enter the chamber – this one protected by a set of heavy doors and a rather handsome dwarf in a furry hat that bows to her deeply – Fili stays behind as she steps forward.

Her brother is sitting on a rather big bed, leaning on a pile of pillows similar to Kili. His lap is covered with furs and blankets, and is also serving him as an impromptu desk it would seem, for there’s a multitude of parchments spread all across it. The King Under the Mountain is sorting through them with care when his head finally raises and he sees the guest. ..

Dis is already by his side, arms already open, gathering her brother close to her, weeping from joy and fear and longing, – like a little girl she hasn’t been in decades. But here, she can allow herself to be weak, for he was always her strength, her courage. He’s lost so much weight, she thinks, and he is so pale. His face is marked with cuts and scabs and there’s so much more silver in his hair. Dis embraces her brother for all that she’s worth and weeps even more when there’s only one arm to embrace her back.

They stay like that until her sobs subside and Thorin pushes himself away a bit. They touch foreheads and close their eyes and simply breathe in the same air for a long moment. Her fingers tread carefully trough his hair, gentle and light. His beard has grown a little since the last time she’s seen him, and it’s all good, she’s happy for there’s no reason for him to cut it anymore. Her brother redeemed their family’s honour; he took their kingdom back with naught, but his own sword and thirteen faithful companions. This is the King songs are made about, this is a story that will survive centuries, and her boys will be forever remembered as heroes. She couldn’t have asked for more.

Her hands roam his face and scars that mark it, soothing touch trying to make them hurt less. It’s when she finally finds his braids that her eyebrows raise and then furrow in thought.

Thorin can feel it, with their foreheads touching, and looks up to her in askance as Dis cradles one braid in her palm and looks back to the door, where Fili stands with his arm in a sling.

“Who braided your hair?” She speaks, curious.

Thorin opens his mouth to answer, but closes it when his gaze also lands on his nephew.

Fili looks awkward all of a sudden, he lowers his eyes and shuffles his feet a little, like a dwarfling caught with his fingers in a jar of jam. Some sort of understanding lightens Thorin’s eyes at that and they widen slightly.

“The Halfling?” His face is full of astonishment when Fili nods and excuses himself from the room.

Dis looks at her brother with renewed curiosity.

The Halfling?   

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what.... just ignore me=___= Thorin is such an ass that I can't make him talk when I wanto to. And this story grows without my help, against my will, really. 
> 
> There will be AT LEAST one more chapter of my scary hairy dwarven adventures;)
> 
> PS - There may be some awkward wording, I will fix it up tomorrow after I've had some sleep.

If Thorin could have it his way, he would be up and about as soon as delirium caused by his battle wounds has run its course. However, it would seem that even Kings Under the Mountain didn’t have much to say in matters that belonged to the gods. His recovery was lengthy and difficult, many a times interrupted by the recurrence of some infection or the other. His bones refused to mend and his wounds were inflamed and swollen even when healers cleaned them diligently time after time.

Only after a month spent buried under sweaty sheets, after a month of restless nights and delirious days filled with pain and fever, Thorin’s body broke through the sickness and started to heal properly. His eyes could finally see and his mind could focus properly for the first time in what it felt like ages.

He’s lost his shield arm.

He didn’t mourn it long, for it seemed like a fair price to pay in the end. A small price for seeing his nephews alive and well, for waking up with a clear head and heavy conscience.

Even if his voice was rusty and harsh from disuse, he could call on his friends, his family, ask them questions.

Balin and Dwalin were by his side in a blink; both visibly relieved and blessedly recovered from the battle. Their wounds healed faster and their minds were as sharp as ever, as they filled him on the goings of his people and Men, and Elves. It was no time to rest, it was a time for a King to stand up and take his rightful place in the order of things again.

Yet he couldn’t stand, for his body was still too weak. He made it work for him regardless, there was too much to do, to many decisions that couldn’t be left in the hands of advisors and friends. The throne of Erebor was still unstable and there were many eyes looking at it with wanting, too many greedy hands reaching for the treasure that was the future of his people.

There was much to do, so he set about doing it.

Dis’ arrival from Iron Hills was a true blessing as her sole presence lightened his spirits; there was no other that would care for her sons better and no other Thorin would trust with his own mind at the moment.  His sister had also a vital part to play in his plans for Erebor’s future.

During the months of forced bedrest Thorin has thought about many things he really didn’t want to think about. Yet in the end everything that could distract him from nearly constant throbbing in his body was welcome so he was thinking when he was supposed to be sleeping.

When Fili was by his side; so young and beautiful, and old in the soul, he would think of his brother, not yet able to walk, still fussed over and bedridden.  

When the days were measured by the candles his healers decided to leave with him, Thorin thought about his journey, his sickness and his decisions before and during the Battle. He thought about his actions and about that thrice-damned curse that followed his family like a malicious shadow only to cloud their minds and cover their eyes under the veil of darkness when they needed them most.

When the fire in the fireplace burned bright and merry on the cold nights, he had time to feel shame. And despair. And horror. As he thought of what nearly befell them all because of his stubbornness and pride.  

When all his advisors and friends were leaving his chamber so he could eat in peace, not shamed with them seeing his struggle with only one arm, he sometimes looked at the food on his plate and thought of their burglar. Of the little soft Halfling who saved their lives again and again, who someway stole their hearts and gave them their home back. And then refused to leave even when they hurt and discarded him.

And sometimes, late at night, when the Mountain around Thorin was finally asleep, he thought of the gentle touch on his face. Of smart little fingers brushing his beard with unsure, hesitant moves. King Under the Mountain thought of his braids that were a little too tight and a little askew, but made with obvious effort and heart by someone who wasn’t family.

He thought of his Kingdom, of its future with him as a King that will never be trusted and will always be feared. He thought of the Arkenstone that he’s left with Men for now and how much easier rational thinking was like that. And how much it hurt to realise it so late.

Peace with Men will have to be signed and peace with the Elves will have to be considered. Not now, not yet, with the wounds so fresh in their memory, but at some point in the future he would have to think about it some more.

He listened to Balin’s words now, to Dwalin’s complains and Gloin’s gruff advice. He was sending for Nori and Bofur often, to hear what was being said under the Mountain and in the human’s settlements. Dain Ironfoot kept sending fast-footed runners with messages that he had Fili read out to him. There was _so much_ to do and time seemed to slip trough his fingers, yet there was still enough left to _think_.   

Thorin thought about everything. Thousands questions swirled in his mind, thousand scenarios fought for attention. It took another month and a half for his body to recover sufficiently that he could finally leave the healing chambers and take his place amongst his people.

By that time he’s had enough answers to keep his steps steady.

 

*

 

Bilbo was quite annoyed with the time his body took to recover after the Battle.

It was just one thing after another that caught him unawares, laying him out for another week, another fortnight.  Three of his ribs turned out to be broken a few days after the victory and Bilbo almost paid with his life for not paying enough attention to the way his breath kept wheezing past his lips and the way his side pained him whenever he wanted to lay down to sleep. Old Oin gave him a stern talking to while pouring foul tasting brews into his mouth and bandaging his chest stiff. Going back to Shire in this state was declared impossible even by Gandalf and bed rest was almost forced on the poor hobbit.

Not more than three days after that Bilbo woke up with a crippling fever and fierce cough that caused his cracked ribs to rattle in the heaving chest. It certainly wasn’t his fault that during the battle he’s got soaked to the skin with blood and mud, and then spent few unconscious hours lying on cold rocks! If he could help it, he would!

Oin didn’t see it this way, unfortunately.

There was more bedrest and more foul smelling concoctions for a long time as the weariness and exhaustion accumulated during the journey seemingly caught up to Bilbo all at once and refused to let him go. He tossed and turned in delirium for more than two weeks and just as his fever broke the ever helpful Ori discovered that the wound on his arm, one that should be on the way to healing, someway got infected and started festering without anyone knowing.

This time it was kindly Dori who cleaned it out and sewed it properly – all the time expressing unflattering opinions on the quality of Elven medicine, - because they were all honestly scared of what Oin would do when confronted with yet another _problem_ their burglar caused. 

It was hopeless, however, for the old dwarf came to know about it anyway.

And so when Bilbo finally woke up from another bout of sickness, it was only to see a pair of amused brown eyes and a smiling face hovering above him.

After some initial confusion it was revealed to him that, form the lack of better means to keep him out of trouble (and save precious space in the Healing Halls), Oin decided to place him in the same bed with Kili. It was also a crafty way of killing two birds with one stone: as the young prince would finally have something to distract and entertain him while he was bedridden.

In the end it took Bilbo more than a month of bedrest and proper meals to finally recover from his many ailments. The sight of his friends being alive and well also helped him greatly. And even, if every once in a while he woke up in the middle of the night with tear-stained face and a young dwarrow prince clinging to him like a limpet, well, no one had to know.  It took some effort, but the shadows under his eyes receded and the nightmares faded a bit.

Gandalf stayed with him for a while; a good friend that always found a moment to spare when the hobbit was in mood for talking. He offered to take him home before winter came, but Bilbo declined. With heavy heart he did it, but there was no way he would dare to brave the mountains in his current state.

He was so very tired.

He missed his home, his comfortable and bright hole in the ground, his armchair and his books. He missed saying ‘Hello’ to his gardener and walking to the market; he missed sitting on the bench in front of his home with a pipe in hand.

And he wanted to go there, to his home. Erebor was magnificent, but it was dark and cold, and needed a lot of work to be made hospitable again. The dwarves that came from Iron Mountains were all good folk, but they never spoke to him and always looked at him strangely, as if perpetually surprised by his presence. He didn’t have any treasure to take home with him, he gave it away, he didn’t need it. There was nothing in Erebor that would require him to stay.

…but he still didn’t want to go. Not yet.

He needed to rest and recover his strength.

He needed a closure.

To see his friends recovered and healthy, reunited with their families. 

Bilbo wanted to see Fili using both of his arms and had to make sure that his eye was saved. Kili promised him that they will scout high levels of the Kingdom as soon as he can walk and it was a tempting proposal; but for now the prince couldn’t even laugh for too long before his head started to hurt.

Bilbo himself promised Gloin to wait until his wife and son arrive from Blue Mountains, so he could finally see his mate’s beauty with his own eyes. And he told Bofur that he would draw him a detailed map of the Shire so that the toy-maker and his family could visit him sometimes.

And, above all else, he wished to see the King Under the Mountain crowned properly and with honours. To see Thorin recognised for a hero that he was, that he became, by the people of Laketown and Mirkwood.

Then he would go home, when the mountain he’s worked so hard for was not so lonely anymore.

In the meanwhile, Bilbo spent his time helping the healers and paying close attention that his own health doesn’t decline yet again. He had a feeling that this time Oin would simply tie him to the bed and keep him like that until Spring.

He's spent time with Gandalf and few times visited Laketown with him. He talked to Bard, who, surprisingly, always made sure to hear his words and advice concerning the ways of dealing with the dwarves. Of course, Gandalf was very wise, he’s told the Man once, but he was as stubborn as a dwarf himself and his approach was not always… efficient.

Many days he’s spent with young Kili, who was mightily bored and out of sorts because of his slow recovery. He’s made himself scarce only when the mother of the princes arrived, a fierce dwarrow woman, Lady Dis. Not wanting to intrude on family moments he appointed himself to helping young Ori with securing the archives that were left in a mess after the dragon tore through them in his rush to get to the Treasury.

Bilbo kept busy and tried to be helpful, making sure that all his friends were always accounted for and in good spirits.

Sometimes he asked Fili about the coronation day, about his uncle’s plans for the Mountain, but rarely ever he’s got a reply. The young dwarf just looked at him with conflict clear in his eyes and swiftly changed the subject. Usually right after that he asked to have his braids fixed or his hair combed, because his hand was still as good as useless, and his mother was with Kili and _there were so many things about hair to be known…_

It was safe to say that Bilbo Baggins very quickly became something of an expert at braiding.

 

*   

The touch was gentle, barely there: fingertips running along his temple, brushing overlong locks behind one ear.

Bilbo didn’t wake up. The day was long and he’s spent most of it covered in dust and debris, hauling heavy tomes from place to place. It was hard for him to remember how it felt to have more than two meals a day even if his friends did their best to keep him feed. There was just enough food in the Mountain to keep its residents alive and Bilbo was smart enough to hold his mouth shut when his stomach demanded Elevensies or a Second Breakfast. Until trade with Laketown picked up there was little to be done about it.

He fell asleep in an old armchair set in front of the fireplace in the small room on the East side of the Mountain that was given to him by Balin. It had a lower ceiling than most and the stone walls were covered by thick, if a little dusty, tapestries. The bed was low enough to get into without the need to hop and Bilbo was thankful to the old dwarf for the insight.

He snored lightly when fingers in his hair moved to the top of his head and grew bolder -- tangling the curls and pulling at them gently, just to have them bounce back like little springs.

He mumbled the first thing that came to his sleepy mind.

“...no braidin’…F’li…”

Amused voice that answered him did not belong to Fili.

“I couldn’t braid it if I wanted to, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo didn’t jump out of the chair only because shock froze his body in place. There was also that big, wide hand on his head and heavy presence of Thorin Oakenshield standing behind his back – as if the mountain itself was standing there, strong and unshakable, keeping the hobbit in thrall with little effort.

It was hard to breathe for a moment. Bilbo hasn’t seen Thorin in a long while (not since the dwarf woke up for good), and he wasn’t sure of the welcome he would get now, after everything that’s came to pass between them.

Thorin asked him for his friendship… before, when they both thought there’s no hope left, and Bilbo liked to think that it was a sincere plea. That Thorin has forgiven him. That there’s nothing to fear from the dwarrow king… But he didn’t dare to assume anything; not yet, not anymore.

“Your hair has gotten long,” the King commented quietly, without moving from the spot. There was a shade of fascination in his voice as he noted: “And it still curls.”

“Of… of course it curls,” Bilbo was proud that his own voice only hitched a little. “I am a Hobbit after all… “ And now what? Sir? Sire? Your Highness?

How did one address dwarrow royalty that has been their friend once?

“I hope you have something to comb it with, otherwise it will be an unsightly mess.”

At that Bilbo’s heart skipped a beat. Was he being indirectly asked about…?

He jumped off the chair this time, reaching under his coat, to the little pocket on the inside of his shirt that good Ori helped him to sew on, fingers tracing the familiar contours of the wooden comb. He presented it to the King without a second thought.

This time he had to fight for his voice to remain steady. “Of course I still have it!”  

It was his treasure, after all. How could he ever let it go when it was worth more to him than the fourteenth part of all the gold and jewels in Erebor? When it was the only share of this adventure that no one could force him to relinquish or leave behind? No, he’d rather lose a hand that that little piece of wood!

Well, not only wood now. Bifur fixed the broken tooth using some sort of shiny metal that was neither gold nor silver. It was bright and smooth, and stood out starkly against the wood; but Bilbo wouldn’t have it any other way, for he didn’t want to forget anything of his journey if he could help it.

“I got it,” he repeated quietly, daring to raise his eyes and look Thorin in the face. “And it’s enough for me.”

If only he could forget the sight of his little comb treading trough those black and silver tresses, catching on tangled knots and dried blood, picking up debris and blades of grass. If only he could forget how pale was the skin under that thick beard, how cold.

Even now, when Thorin stood before him in person, finally healed and so very much alive, Bilbo found it hard to look at him. The King has… changed. Gone was the powerful, imposing figure that ages ago greeted Bilbo Baggins on his own doorstep, gone were the haughty stare and superior manner.

Thorin was much paler now; his powerful figure grew gaunt and yet seemed all the taller for it, dressed in thick brocades and furs. The lack of one arm was a shocking thing to behold. Bilbo foolishly hoped in some part of his soul that it would also fix itself in some way. After all, this was Thorin Oakenshield! He defied all odds and every kind of logic on daily basis!

But this time it just wasn’t enough.  An empty sleeve was a proof of that.

“You can touch it, if you need to.” That calm reproach made Bilbo realise that he was staring.

Immediately embarrassed, he clutched the comb to his chest and lowered his eyes again, mind going back to the more important issue.

He hoped… he hoped that he understood it right. That he wasn’t about to be turned away or laughed at. That he could still count on camaraderie where there was close friendship before.

That, when Thorin asked after the comb, it didn’t mean that he wanted it back.

Bilbo’s heart clenched painfully when the King finally moved, walking around the chair to stand in front of the hobbit and reach out for his treasure. He almost snatched it back. He wouldn’t lose it! Not after Bifur worked so hard to fix it!

But the comb was not taken away; instead, Thorin gently cradled Bilbo’s trembling hand in his big, steady one.

And then the King Under the Mountain leaned down, raising their joined hands, so his lips could touch the craved surface of the comb. 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is getting ridiculous! D: Now Thorin is making me write another chapter and another one...   
> because he is a confounded dwarf and can't just speak to his burglar like a boss, without all the side-talk and loaded looks...   
> But Dis is blonde>:D Bet you didn't suspect that one, huh?

Bilbo could not breathe.

 As much as he wanted to, the air would simply not enter his lungs. Of course his heart didn’t agree with that and he could feel it hammering in protest, could feel the pressure raising in his temples and knew that if he doesn’t do something soon the edges of his vision will start to close in and…

And this time Oin will probably kill him outright to finally have some long deserved peace.

So Bilbo steeled his nerves and took a deep breath; and tried to ignore the funny feeling he’s got when Thorn’s beard lightly scratched over his fingertips and the slightly intimidating way the dwarf’s hot breath run over his wrist. Bilbo pushed his brain to work and, probably from the lack of air, it made his first reaction somewhat strange.

He giggled.

Thorin looked at him from under thick eyebrows and Bilbo giggled again, trying and failing to keep his mouth from blubbering the first thing that came to mind.

“Is this another innuendo that will get me laughed at when the Company hears of it?”

It was absolutely the stupidest thing to say on their first meeting after three months. After the way their last meeting went. After… everything. It was only his daft Took side that thought it to be funny.

Or maybe not, because there was a distressingly familiar spark in Thorin’s eyes as he straightened and looked down at the hobbit. “I would hope that my burglar can keep his mouth shut. The food is not involved, after all.”

The crux of the thing was, Bilbo’s frantic mind supplied, that he was never sure if Thorin Oakenshield had a sense of humour hiding under all that disgruntled glower or if it was just all finely honed sarcasm. Like a very sharp and very thin needle that entered he flesh and pulled back so fast that the pain would register long after one has already sighed with relief.

“That accusation hurts me, Your Highness,” Bilbo’s Took side took over for good, it would seem. “We Hobbits are taught to chew with our mouths closed… Unlike the dwarrow folk.”

It was a good answer, apparently, because this time there was an actual smile on the King’s face and the hand that clapped the hobbit on the shoulder was careful with its strength.

“I would ask you for help yet again, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin said as he seated himself imperiously in his armchair. “For I am in dire need of assistance.”

Bilbo almost flinched at the sudden change of the topic, but before he opened his mouth to ask his gaze followed the dwarf’s hand to his temple and the braids that hung from it. Braids that were loose and a little flimsy, and certainly needed fixing.

Bilbo looked dubiously at the comb still sitting in his palm. Was he expected to…? Well, not like it would be something new for him, combing Thorin’s hair or renewing his braids. He already took liberties in this field that now, when he stood in front of the recovered King, seemed much more… serious than he previously thought.

That first time, in the field tent, it was misery and despair that pushed him to it. He had to do _something_ with his hands, something that would seem like he was helping. Then it was all Fili’s fault – young Prince insisting that his brother and uncle need to look presentable even in their bedridden state. With his hand out of commission, Fili talked Bilbo into helping with his own braids too and the hobbit couldn’t find it in him to refuse. After all he’s done… every bit of help he could offer his friends he would offer gladly. He was too small to help with rebuilding, too… guilty to meddle in politics again. There was only one thing for him to do and that was to care for the last of the Durin’s line.

And the Company left him to it, trusting him with their King and Princes. It was… a humbling thing.

But now? When Thorin was up and about, busy with important things and looking so serious?

How was Bilbo going to go about it now? Knowing that after all that’s happened the King himself still trusts him enough to ask him, a burglar and a traitor and a lowly hobbit, for help? When his own sister is at hand and Kili’s hands stopped shaking a while ago…

“There, you can use this, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo raised his eyes and almost stumbled in shock.

There, in Thorin’s hands was resting a thing of beauty. Made with silver and gold, with bright white bone and blue jewels, – a comb of a King, indeed.

Bilbo felt his hands reach for it, but there was no conscious thought behind the gesture. When his fingers closed around the comb a shiver went up his spine, but not because the metal was cold, oh no, rather the opposite. It was surprisingly warm.

 _Well it should be, Thorin carries it on his chest_ , supplied some still thinking part of Bilbo’s brain. And it made his ears turn red, because this – whatever they were doing now – seemed suddenly much more intimate and personal. With this one realisation:  that he was holding in his hand a bit of Thorin’s warmth; the world around Bilbo fell away leaving only him and the dwarf and his fast beating heart.

It took him a while to come back to his senses – embarrassingly long while, to tell the truth, because Bagginess weren’t known for blanking out on their… friends, – and, thankfully, his  hands were not connected to his mind, for they started to work on loosening the braids on the left side of the dwarf’s head. All Bilbo could do was to follow their lead and focus on the task; all too aware of the curious stare that was directed at him from under the black bushy eyebrows.

Crackling of the fire in the heart was the only sound accompanying them for the longest while. It made Bilbo a bit nervous, because there was so much to say between them, so many words that just waited to be spoken, but at the same time the silence wasn’t… unpleasant or awkward. It was quite comfortable, in fact. Come to think of it, as far as he could remember, it was the silence that always worked the best when it came to him and the dwarrow King.  

For some reason words were never easy between him and Thorin, but since the… dragon ( _it was easier to think of the dragon instead of the gold_ ) they were even harder. Not that there’ve been many of them.

But Bilbo has always felt intimidated by the tall warrior – against himself and his better judgement.

And Thorin seemed quite lost in his interactions with the Company’s burglar most of the time. As if it was far easier to resent him – there were clear, understandable reasons for it, at least: the softness, inexperience and annoying propriety. When it came to being civil – or even friendly – the King floundered. He didn’t know Hobbits’ ways of conduct, that much was clear, and didn’t want to assume that the dwarven ways won’t cause offense.

It was a strange dance they were preforming all the way since the Carrock and that memorable hug.

Bilbo would follow the King to the gates of Mordor if needed be.

Thorin would jump off the cliff’s edge to save his burglar’s life.

And yet, they couldn’t seem to stop sidestepping around one another.

That’s why Bilbo has already resigned himself to the fate and was working on the last braid when the words finally cut through the silence in the small chamber.

“Stay the Winter,” Thorin said quietly and looked up, catching his eyes and repeated in even softer voice to make it sound more like a plea than an order, “Stay the Winter with us.”

The hobbit flailed for a moment opening and closing his mouth with no words to speak; his task forgotten.

“I would not have you out in the mountains when the first snows hit.” Thorin continued after a short pause. “And I will do whatever’s possible to make your stay in my home comfortable.”

At that Bilbo swallowed and finally, finally, managed to croak out, “I would hate to impose.” And it was his Baggins’ upbringing coming to fore now. “There are those who need comfort more than I.”

He almost chocked when a warm hand closed over his wrist, pulling him to stand in front of the chair, his knees scant inches away from Thorin’s. For a moment they both stared at the thick, blunt fingers encircling the thin, pale wrist.

“You’ve lost weight on the journey,” the King said calmly. “And it’s distressing to see you like that.”

“Pardon me!” Bilbo’s Baggins side felt it prudent to voice an objection; but whatever ire the statement brought on was doused efficiently when his eyes were met with an amused blue gaze. “…it’s not that bad.”

“You need to regain your strength, as we all. Soon trade routes with Laketown and Iron Mountains will be open, and then we will have enough to feed you properly, Master Hobbit, your eleven meals a day.”

Bilbo felt his cheeks redden at that strange mixture of teasing and genuine caring that was quite new coming from the usually serious dwarf.

“Seven meals,” he corrected at barely more than a whisper.  

“Hmm, maybe so,” hummed Thorin. “But you’ve earned eleven.”

At that they both chuckled a bit and then, when Bilbo was ready to take his hand back, thank you, the King looked at him again. And this time his gaze made the hobbit’s heart freeze for a moment. It was in some way different than all the glances and stares before, it was warm, but it was also sad and caring and hopeful. And Bilbo’s face flamed with a blush and he didn’t know what to do.

“But stay the Winter,” Thorin repeated for the third time, still holding his hand. “Come Spring, we will see you safely to your Shire.” He pulled a little on the captive limb, gently, leaving a lot of space for the hobbit to free himself and step back. Bilbo didn’t. “There’s a lot I have to atone for, please, give me time to do so properly.”

“But you don’t…” Bilbo cut himself off halfway through the protest. He was about to lie that there was nothing to forgive and nothing to apologise for. There was, on both sides, and it would do neither of them any favours to deny it and pretend that all was well. They had to do it ( _whatever it was_ ) slowly and properly, if their friendship was to be ever reborn at its best.

Thorin recognised his silence for what it was and hurried to assure with calm words. “I wish for us to be friends again.”

“And maybe I can show you, my dear burglar, that my heart is true this time around.”

And what could Bilbo say to that? How could he refuse when those blue eyes were looking at him with such honest hope?  

He remembered seeing them clouded with pain and fever; he remembered this face ashen from blood loss and cold like ice. He remembered his King so close to death that it was painful to even hope…

He allowed himself to be pulled closer to the living, breathing, _warm_ body occupying his armchair. To step between the dwarf’s knees and reach out with his weak, trembling arms.

The Shire Folk were far from fanciful; they weren’t really good with flowery speeches or poetic oaths. And Bilbo was a hobbit through and thru, respectable, but none the less simple – so his answer was in kind.

It was to embrace his confounded dwarf and hold him just close enough that the few tears that escaped him would go unnoticed. It was to say:

“How can I refuse when you’re promising me eleven meals a day?”

At this point they were both very good at pretending that it doesn’t hurt when they chuckle. Even if it’s a good kind of pain.

 

*

“So it’s you.”

Those were the first words Lady Dis said to him when they were finally properly introduced and Bilbo trembled hearing them.

She cut an imposing figure, almost as imposing as her brother; obvious feminity of her stature didn’t do much to soften the edges. Her face was startlingly similar to Thorin’s, if a little more slender; and she didn’t have a full beard, but some beautifully styled side whiskers. They were both tall and wide-shouldered, thought, with big strong hands and stiff backs.

It was her hair, golden like honey and soft like silk, that made most difference between the two siblings.

Bilbo was at first quite shocked; up until this point he assumed that Fili’s got his colouring after his father and it was Kili who looked like their mother. What a surprise, to have his assumption turned on its head like that!

But, however Lady Dis was a beautiful dwarrow woman, she was also fierce and serious, and her blue eyes were sharp as they looked over one Bilbo Baggins as if he was a pumpkin put on sale.

 “It is you, then,” she repeated, stepping closer to the poor hobbit. “Who made sure that my boys didn’t look like wildlings in front of Elves and Men.”

Oh, when she put it like that…

“Yes, that would be me,” Bilbo hoped his voice sounded calm enough. “Not much else to do for a hobbit, my Lady, and young Fili insisted…”

Dis of Erebor was certainly more like her brother than Bilbo suspected at first.

“Thank you, Mister Baggins.”

They certainly hugged in a similar way.   

 

        

 

 

 

 

  


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand it came to the end>:D The story full of scary haircare and angst ends here...  
> ...but it's not over yet;)  
> Anyway, enjoy and have fun:)  
> Oh, and by the way: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64xFk5YYwMo this is the track you have to thank for this part being finished, without it I would never get it done>_> Two Steps From Hell "Men of Honor"

In the beginning he wanted to go home. After walking off of the battlefield Bilbo wished to be in Bag End, alone with his comfy chair and his books and his garden. Away from all the blood and screaming and sorrow. Away from the pain that settled in his chest, crushing his heart every time he tried to breathe in deeper.

He wanted to find Gandalf and ask him to be taken back to the Shire.

And he didn’t do it only because he was too tired to walk. Bilbo fell down in the spot he was pointed to and slept like a stone for almost two days.

The urge came back when he woke up, even stronger and more consuming, – but then Bofur told him that Thorin is alive, still in grave condition, but alive… and Bilbo had to see him, had to make sure with his own eyes that his stupid, confounded Dwarf is not dead.

Not long after Fili came to him asking for help in taking care of his brother. And that was it, in the end. That was the reason Bilbo Baggins has stayed in the Mountain: two young, lonely princes.

They were surrounded by friends, of course, but there was too much to do before anyone could find the time to sit constant vigil by Kili’s bedside or try to remember when the last time Fili has eaten was. Dwalin and Balin, two closest to the boys in terms of familial ties, were trying, bless them, but they were called off for one thing or another all the time.

Without their Uncle to look up to, the boys were left bereft. And so it fell to the only member of the Company that could be spared to keep them grounded and cared for.

Whatever else could be said about the Hobbits – one thing they were good at was taking care of living things. Bilbo realised with no small amount of surprise that looking after two wounded Dwarflings was quite a bit easier than looking after his prized tomatoes; at least in Erebor there were no young daring Tooks ready to test their mantles by stealing produce from their older cousin.

It was… depressingly easy – on his own, Fili was much calmer than Bilbo could ever imagine;  easy to keep track of, as he was always either sitting with Thorin or sleeping by Kili’s side, trying to keep his brother warm in the drafty Healing Halls. He seemed to mature in a span of few days, growing into a soft-spoken, pensive young prince when there was no one to distract him with jokes and pranks.

He seemed lost and Bilbo’s heart ached for him.

As for Kili… he was asleep. Óin said that his brain (as much as there was of it to begin with) was trying to mend the damage caused by the hit and that there was no rushing it. If the prince is strong enough, he will pull through with minimal damage.

Bilbo had no doubt that Kili will wake up. The boy was stubborn even for a Dwarf – influence of his uncle, surely – and the bond he shared with his brother was uncanny. One wouldn’t dare to go where the other couldn’t follow; Fili _would_ pull him back to the world of the living.

The only thing everyone was concerned about was the state in which the younger prince re-joins that world. No one wanted to say it, but all of them glanced at Bifur once or twice with wary eyes.

Bilbo didn’t allow himself to dwell on that possibility, instead he focused on the matters at hand; he was a Hobbit and Hobbits were used to taking what life threw at them and making it work. He made do with what he’s got – even when his own health cracked under the strain of stress and exertion the last year has put him through. Then it was Fili who took care of him and it seemed to do him a world of good; he could do something for Bilbo, hold him up or bring him food, entertain him with mindless chatter – it had to be so much better than a silent vigil by his sleeping brother.

When Kili awoke it was a cause for joy and celebration among the Company that at this point would take everything, no matter how small, to find joy in. With Thorin still in the bad way at least this one thing they could stop worrying about. And no one was more overjoyed than Fili.

Bilbo saw how the light returned to the prince’s eyes, how his whole posture seemed to grow and straighten, as if the weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He couldn’t understand, not really, he’s never had any siblings – or even cousins this close to him – and could hardly fathom how it felt to care so much for another person that if they ever went away half of his heart would go with them. He loved his parents and he loved his family, and he even… well, had some warm feelings towards the fool of a King Under the Mountain so to speak… and his companions, of course… but he was a Hobbit and he doubted that a simple love the Shirefolk experienced could ever match to the unbreakable bonds the Dwarves formed with their loved ones.

Kili, as weak as he was, clung to his brother like a limpet – maybe in some way aware how long it was since they’ve seen each other for the last time and wanting to erase the loneliness of separation. Bilbo’s heart swell as he watched the brothers… or it might have been the fever that made breathing hard, who knows?

He was laid down for another fortnight and his plans to leave the Mountain were pushed aside once more. Then, when he finally got out of the bed, Ori and Balin approached him with a request for help in tidying up the library – an offer that any Baggins in his right mind wouldn’t refuse for anything, even if it meant staying in this cold, dark mountain for few more months.

Thinking back to it, Bilbo suspected that the idea didn’t come from Balin at all. Fili’s eyes were entirely too bright and Kili’s face took on that mischievous look when he was telling the brothers about his decision – both looking like they were up to something regardless of their battered state. It would be just like them to try and make the Hobbit do things that he wouldn’t even think of doing otherwise – like try to rob the trolls for example, or let two strange Dwarves into his home.

Bilbo vowed that at some point in the future he will try and come to terms with the fact that wherever these two scoundrels were concerned his hard-earned respectability went down the drain. They were entirely too much like their uncle, those two, certainly. It was their _bloody_ fault that he wasn’t yet in Bag End, reunited with his cosy armchair and his pipe.

No, instead he was living in the Lonely Mountain, stacking books he couldn’t read and making sure that the youngest members of the ruling family don’t get into too much trouble on their own. He was sleeping in a too-big bed under heavy furs instead of soft blankets and eating too little green things to be at all respectable.

And it was all because of those two young Dwarves; and it was also _their bloody fault_ that he didn’t mind it as much as he should.

 

*

 They ambushed Bilbo just as he was stepping out of his room. Well, ‘ambush’ was a little strong of a word as the brothers just stood there in the corridor with playful smiles dancing on their lips. Smiles that made the Hobbit want to take a step back and hide behind the closed door of his calm and peaceful room.

Instead, the brave creature took them on with only a shade of apprehension lightly pulling his brows together.

Fili and Kili looked, for the lack of a better word, excellent. During the winter they’ve managed to gain back lost weight and Kili wasn’t so sickly pale anymore.

Fili’s arm recovered splendidly – much better than his eye that lost a big chunk of its strength. The blond could see through it, but he’s complained that the vision was cloudy and flickering, and often threw him off balance. Sometimes he preferred to cover it entirely and rely on the one good eye he was left with; reading was easier this way, he often said, so was fencing. Interestingly, as much as the prince complained about weak vision, he never said a word about the scar that was left after the wound that caused it – a sharp, pale line of a vertical strike that started over his brow and ended halfway down his cheek.

 _“He thinks it makes him look handsome. Like Mister Dwalin.”_ Kili once revealed, trying to sound amused, but looking a bit _too_ _envious_ of the added feature his brother was sporting with nearly tangible pride.     

Bilbo was sure that he will never be able to understand Dwarves and their strange outlook on life. He was sure that for any other race on Arda ‘handsome’ and ‘scary’ _were not_ interchangeable descriptions of a person. Neither would any race he knew of think that scars of all things improved one’s look. As he already told Kili, the younger prince was handsome enough as he was, even if his beard was slow to fill in and the only scar worth mentioning he was left with after the battle was hidden under his hair.

Speaking about hair, Bilbo was pleased to see that Lady Dis has finally found a way to make her younger son look less… lopsided. Kili’s hair were the biggest loss, as far as the Company was concerned (and Bilbo was about to knock their heads together after hearing this… until he remembered what Fili told him about dwarven hair during that fateful conversation on the riverbank). Hit to the head that laid him out was strong enough to cut through skin and the wound was too big to leave it as it was; tangled mane around it had to be shorn before the Healers could even attempt stitching. It left Kili with a bald patch stretching from the temple over the left ear that was causing him obvious shame and distress.

Now, though the patch was nicely filling in with new hair it was also shadowed by the intricate braids woven with gems and kept in place by a thin silver circlet resting on the youth’s head. And, as it was, Fili’s braids were also more intricate than usually.

Both brothers were dressed for the occasion: in thick brocades and soft leathers; Fili’s overcoat sported an impressive fur collar while Kili’s parted to show a beautifully crafted brigandine covering his chest.

Next to them Bilbo – in his brown trousers, soft shirt and blue overcoat, - felt distressingly underdressed. Even if by Hobbit standards he was done up to the last stitch: his hair neatly brushed and vest buttons polished to the inch of their life. Even if his neighbours from Hobbiton would find his dwarven-styled blue overcoat extremely overdone and the silver embroidery on his vest a bit gaudy…

Compared to the princes he looked like, well, a middle-aged gentlehobbit with no real standing in the wider society – or a very well to do grocer.

The urge to hide came back, stronger this time; to go back to his room and ruffle through his wardrobe in search of something, _anything_ , that would be appropriate for the occasion. Attending a coronation of the King Under the Mountain surely necessitated a proper getup.

Bilbo’s distress had to show on his face, because Kili stepped closer, smiling lightly.

“It’s for the occasion,” he said brushing through his braids carefully, clearly misinterpreting his friend’s stare. “Mam braided it for us. Awfully itchy, but what can you do?”

Fili however, always a bit quicker on the uptake, had to read Bilbo’s expression right, because his smile was a lot more teasing than his brother’s as he laced one hand with the Hobbit and pulled him down the corridor. “We thought to help you, Mister Baggins,” he explained kindly. “So you are all presentable and proper for the ceremony. Balin would never forgive us if you’ve showed up looking less than your best.”     

The elderly Dwarf stood behind the majority of preparations for the coronation and, from what Bilbo understood, he took every glitch in the proceedings very personally. Dwarves didn’t do much decorating – not as much as Hobbits did, for sure, - but rather focused on the specific order of things. One surely couldn’t tell from watching them eat, but apparently _official_ dwarven celebrations were strictly structured with multiple different sets of directions to follow – going as far to include number of the steps one made and the height to which they could raise their eyes. It all sounded fascinating and fairly crazy when Ori tried to describe it to him a few days ago.

Bilbo, thank Valar, didn’t _have to_ follow any of the mentioned directions. He wasn’t even properly introduced to them as he was not a Dwarf and their sworn secrecy kept him firmly outside of the whole mess of choosing the carpets and ceremonial weapons in the right shade of steel; and certainly out of the way of numerous dignitaries and ambassadors that crowded the halls of Erebor like a herd of perpetually lost, yet awed sheep. 

Well, _mostly_ out of the way. For  some reason Thorin decided that his burglar will make a perfect guide for the legations from Rivendell and Lorien – to the silent terror of the burglar himself, to be sure. For a while Bilbo tried to decide if this was some sly attempt at getting back at him for the whole mess with the Arkenstone and his glaringly obvious delight with Rivendell – he could not help _liking_ the Elves, he really couldn’t! Even ones as standoffish as Elrond or smug and superior as Thranduil; they’ve never did _him_ any harm – and Hobbits were very peculiar about not hating those who didn’t deserve it. Well, Thranduil _did_ have a way of turning into a right pain that he’s employed frequently during peace negotiations between Erebor and Mirkwood last Winter – but his flights of temper were mainly directed at Thorin and nothing if not reciprocated. Vigorously. And loudly.

To the point that, by the end of the Winter Bilbo wished to grab both rulers by their respective ears and smash their foreheads together like his aunt Gloriosa Took used to do with her two exasperating sons on occasion when their fighting got out of control. Only thing stopping him was a thought that the stubborn blighters won’t understand an ounce of it – and he was too short to reach the Elvenking’s ear anyway.

Bilbo could hardly understand how ones could have such big ears and yet hear so little _reason_ with them!    

Thankfully, Lord Lindir of Rivendell and Haldir of Lorien were unlike their Woodland brethren, it is to say: both were extremely polite and sincerely impressed and appreciative of the state of the freshly-reclaimed kingdom. Bilbo could not find a more pleasant company if he’s tried, even if Haldir was of a silent sort.

Now, though, all of the dignitaries, lords and ladies were gathered around the Great Deep where the coronation was about to take place and for the first time Bilbo could see how different the Mountain looked when it was filled with… life. There were Men from Lake Town, led by King Bard, Elven delegations, Dwarves from Iron Mountains and from Ered Luin.

The Mountain was scantily inhabited during the Fall last year when Dain Ironfoot took his army back to Iron Hills leaving only enough numbers to keep the stronghold safe when its rightful heir was recovering. Not long after that, as the news about the dragon’s death spread far and wide, more and more Dwarves flocked to Erebor – most of them came back from the Iron Hills, willing to start their lives anew in the reclaimed kingdom. There were groups of travelling smiths and mercenaries, tinkers and miners who split from their brethren in Blue Mountains to find coin and employment somewhere else. There were also small groups from Ered Luin that braved the wild and dangers to see their home finally free of the wrym.

Slowly, but surely their numbers in the Mountain grew – and Bilbo saw with his own eyes how every new arrival changed the kingdom around him. Restoration of the most damaged levels was swift, for there were no better craftsmen than Dwarves. There were more smiles, more ease all around, foreboding silence that hung heavy under the mountain when the Company first made their way inside was lifted to make space for songs and rumbling echoes of laughter. With every passing day Bilbo could see the kingdom that could be – no, that _will_ be – coming into shape.

But now, with the main levels of the Mountain bustling with life and chatter and anticipation – he saw the kingdom that _has been_. The rich, bright home for thousands of Dwarrows; warm and splendid. Like a living mechanism made of many, many little parts that worked together with perfect precision.

He could finally catch a glimpse of the memory that kept his King strong, that brought all of them on this crazy journey. And, seeing it, Bilbo could not begrudge Thorin choosing a suicidal quest above the life of peace in Ered Luin. He just couldn’t.

This whole adventure business had to break something in him – or maybe it was one of the many, many falls he’s experienced on it – something essentially Hobbitish, because as much as he wanted to believe otherwise, Bilbo Baggins was sure that, given another chance, he wouldn’t choose differently, he would follow.

And it scared him to some extent… But no more than walking alongside two young Dwarves in the direction of the Royal Halls.  Bilbo knew both brothers well and expected mischief as soon as they crossed the threshold of the Solar rooms. Only the unexpected presence of Lady Dis quashed his fears somewhat.   

“Mister Baggins,” she greeted him with a small nod, “I see that my two rapscallions managed to intercept you after all.”

“Lady Dis,” Bilbo bowed respectfully, stepping into the room. “Indeed, they’ve ambushed me in the corridor and, as I seem to like them against all odds, I had no heart to defend myself.”

Fili and Kili sniggered at that and even Dis smiled lightly at his teasing. She was a hard Dwarf to impress and Bilbo treasured every smile he’s managed to paint on her serious face. Usually they were reserved for her sons and brother, but, as Dwalin assured him once, the Hobbit was on a good track.

“You wouldn’t harm us with that toothpick of yours if you tried, Mister Boggins,” Kili teased back, poking Bilbo in the arm. “You love us too much to harm even one hair of our beards.”

“Not that you give me much opportunity for that, my boy,” Bilbo said with a straight face.  

“Well of course! We are too skilled in fight to give in!” Kili boasted.

“Brother,” Fili took it upon himself to herd his sibling in. “I think Mister Baggins didn’t mean it in that sense.”

“But what else… oh no, he didn’t!” Kili’s eyes went wide. He spanned in place to look at Bilbo with betrayal firmly written across his features, one hand clenched to his heart. “Treason! Off with his head!”

“Now, now, boy…”

“You’ve hurt me, Mister Hobbit, to my very heart! It hurts, oh how it hurts!” the youth wailed unashamed, much to his mother’s embarrassment and his brother’s amusement. “Such slander from you of all people!”

“What?” Bilbo’s eyebrows pulled together. “Why me of all people?”

“I hoped you would understand me,” Kili was close to rolling down on the carpet. “With your inability to grow a proper beard and…

“Oh really now!”

“…and those little curls of yours a part from raven’s three quarters in jade!”

The laughter filling the chamber silenced at that. Kili shook his head with a grimace; he opened his mouth to say something… but then quickly closed it, eyes darting to the side, away from the audience, face suddenly pale. He shrugged and stalked out of the chamber in silence.

Fili, as expected, chased after him.

Bilbo turned to Dis not knowing how to react to the situation. Lady’s face was calm, but her eyes betrayed emotions that were hard to witness for their depth. There was worry and sadness, but also pride and love so immense that the Hobbit had to swallow compulsively.

“When he gets excited, his words escape him,” Dis said in lieu of explanation. “Not always, but it still… distresses him greatly.”

And, from the way her hands clenched into fists on the richly embroidered skirts of her gown, Bilbo could guess that not only Kili was distressed by it.

It warmed his heart to know it, even as the same organ went to the young prince. To know that they both, his rascals, his companions, were loved like that, so fiercely. During his stay in the Mountain Bilbo was slowly learning how Dwarrows managed their emotions and one of the paramount differences between them and Hobbits was the _steadiness_. Whole world saw the Durin’s Folk as simply stubborn – and it wasn’t a wrong impression, because many of them could be infuriatingly hard-headed – but that stubbornness came from the steadiness of Dwarven feelings and the way they didn’t bother with hiding them. When a Dwarf hated something, he made sure it was known.

When a Dwarf loved something… that love was like granite, like diamonds, unbreakable, unfading. Eternal.

And seeing that his boys had someone to love them like that – apart from their stubborn and foolish uncle – was a relief. After all that happened on the quest, Fili and Kili deserved to be treasured above all else by at least one person.

“Come now, Mister Baggins,” Lady Dis shook off the sadness and beckoned him with a gesture. “I’ve been told that you Hobbits don’t braid your hair, but this time you will have to bear it with grace. Hm, your overcoat could be a tad longer, but you’re of a short sort, so we will manage.”

Bilbo followed the dwarrow woman into the chamber without complaint or protest. She was a fierce mother and trying to escape her care was fruitless. The smartest thing to do was to shut up and listen – and Bilbo Baggins always prided himself on being a smart Hobbit.    

 

*

 

Hobbits didn’t braid their hair – mostly. It was a thing reserved for young girls and older women – as the former had mothers to do it for them and the latter had enough time to fight with their curls. Hobbit hair just wasn’t made for braiding of any kind – it was made for ribbons and flower wreaths, and for neat haircuts that never went lower than the neck. They didn’t also grow beards, for that matter. Most of the male population of the Shire was plagued by a spread of tin whiskers that covered their jaws and lips in uneven pattern, making them look like younglings of Men and itching at the worst of times.

That’s why Bilbo carried the straight razor with him when he set out on a journey. A razor that, sadly, got lost somewhere between Beorn’s Hall and Mirkwood. It didn’t seem important then – there was Lake Town and a dragon in their sight, then three armies ready to tear into each other and then five armies tearing into each other with disturbing zeal.

No, there was no time to think about a thin slice of steel that served no other purpose than to keep Bilbo’s vanity sated.  

But, as things settled and the mad chase from place to place ended, the spread of stray hair on is face started to annoy Bilbo. It was the itching, mostly, but also the looks sometimes thrown his way by the Dwarves. They stared at his face with pity and embarrassment on his behalf; as if the inconvenience his race was destined to suffer was in their eyes an attempt to fit in with his company that failed against Bilbo’s deepest wishes.

It was, to tell the truth, aggravating. Trust the Dwarves to make everything to be about them! The world rested on their shoulders and the sun shone so they could see better; and every time an Elf sneezed it was just to insult their mothers! 

But, back to the subject, even though Hobbit hair was not created with braiding in thought, Lady Dis’s attempts were quite impressive. Bilbo didn’t exactly end up with _braids_ – his hair was still too short for that, even if it grew a bit below his nape in the time since the last cut. Instead, Thorin’s sister somewhat managed to pull the loose curls from over his ears to the front and weave them with a bit of a string and tiny green beads to resemble the trademark Durins’ plaits.

“You have no family here,” she explained in the meanwhile, “No one to vouch for you. Of course you are a part of my brother’s Company and that gives you certain status in Erebor, but… these are Dwarven politics, mister Baggins. For you to stand with your friends and my sons at the ceremony, as Thorin wishes, you need to be considered more than that. This way,” she pointed to the weavings, “All will know that my family stands behind you, bahêl malekûn.”

It would have hurt him a few months back – the fact that no matter how much he’s tried and how much he gave up for the Dwarves, for their doomed quest, he will never be fully accepted into their society. That some parts of his friend’s lives will forever be kept from him – their language, their traditions and beliefs. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire would feel betrayed and lonely.

But this Bilbo, part-Took and a hero of his own little story, understood. After all, a Dwarf moving into Hobbiton would face exactly the same situation – no matter how welcoming and kid the Shirefolk seemed to be, there would always be gossip and measuring looks behind their back; distrust build on nothing else than different features and culture.     

The fact that the King Under the Mountain was vouching for his presence meant a lot for _this_ Bilbo. That his company wanted him to stand with them in the place of honour reserved for the heroes; right beside the royal family. He was a simple Hobbit, nothing special really, and he would feel good standing at the end of the crowd as long as he’s got to see the coronation taking place. He just wanted to see it happening – the ending of the Adventure, the moment it all came together, when all their struggles have finally meant something. Bilbo was sure that he would be alright with being forgotten in the crowd as long as he’s got to see his friends happy and honoured.

But instead, as the only Hobbit in the history of Arda, he was offered to stand with the Dwarves; as close to being one of them as anyone could ever come… He couldn’t dismiss that. He didn’t want to. He wanted to share in that moment of perfect happiness with those stubborn fools who became more important to him than anything else on this world.

And some small part of Bilbo, a deeply hidden part that wasn’t at all pretty and nice, wanted to look from the dais at the gathered Men and Elves, at the Dwarves from Iron Hills – at those who looked away from Thorin when his people needed help – and _gloat_. Because he was just a small Hobbit from the kind West, a halfling in their languages, well-fed and used to comfort of his own home – and yet he was brave enough to rush into the wild with a strange Company of thirteen Dwarves. Brave enough to face Orcs, spiders and a Goblins for them. To outwit an Elvenking and his guards; to stand eye to eye with the _chiefest calamity of their age_ and in the end gamble his life on the one off-chance that a goldsick king won’t kill him outright… 

Yes, he was terrified to the bone. Yes, he was too soft and clumsy with a blade. But that meant nothing in the end – the fear and despair and doubt.

 

*

 

Blood, tears and pain meant nothing when he stood with them hours later in the Great Deep; shoulder to shoulder with the miners, toy-makers and tinkers that were now hailed as the heroes of Erebor.

Nothing else mattered when Bilbo looked at his friends.

Only Dori’s steely grip kept Ori from hiding behind Nori who was positively preening at the attention. Óin, for once since Bilbo knew him, dropped the sour look from his face and Gloin looked ready to burst with pride whenever he looked at his wife – which was pretty much constantly. Bombur’s face was covered in a hot blush, but his eyes glistened suspiciously and the Hobbit’s heart went out for the rotund Dwarf. Bifur lost somewhere his wild appearance and looked distressingly _elegant_ , even though he decided to keep his boar spear at hand. Bofur’s smile was blinding under his new hat as he kept stealing small glances at his companions and winking at them.

Fili and Kili flanked their mother, both looking proud and serious, but at the same time so very happy…

Dwalin didn’t change. But then again, he didn’t need to. The proud dwarf stood tall with the Kingsguard, decked in polished armour, a warg fur skin draped over his broad shoulders. Balin stood by the throne in all his glory of red robes and snow-white beard. His eyes could be wet, Bilbo couldn’t see them that well from where he was standing, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they were. After all wasn’t this the moment when Balin’s dream also came true?

They were all there, for their companion, for their leader.

For their King who bowed his head when the crown was placed on it. For the moment when the mythril band finally ( _finally!_ ) rested on his temples  and the hush fell over the great hall. When Thorin stood and turned it was with visible effort, as if the Mountain itself leaned on his shoulders to see if he’s strong enough to lift it; to rule it.

He was, of course he was, Bilbo didn’t doubt it for even a second. Thorin Oakenshield was short-tempered, stubborn and possessive, downright cantankerous on his worst days, but he was the strongest person he has even known. And his people knew it.

The Mountain knew it too.

The roar of the crowd went up to the high ceiling and Bilbo lowered his head and discreetly tried to wipe his eyes. That was it. That was the pay-off for all that’s happened to them during these long months filled with danger and fear. For all the pain and despair and every bloody wound they had to endure on their journey. 

And it was worth it. In the end _it was_ _all_ _worth it_.

 

*

 

Celebration lasted three whole days. Even though it wasn’t as lavish as it could’ve been if Erebor’s larders were full, it was impressive even by the Shire standards – Bilbo felt that, being a Hobbit, he has a right to judge his opinion as valid in these matters. Also, being a Hobbit gave him a distinct advantage in handling strong liquors and hours of dancing and shouting.

When he finally crawled back to his quarters he was a thoroughly exhausted, but happy Hobbit. On the second day he’s managed to outdrink Bard, which gained him some newfound respect amongst the Men and a wave of warm affection from the Dwarves. He was smart enough not to try the same with the Elves.

Bilbo was especially proud of the fact that at some point he’s manage to tempt Lady Dis into dancing with him; especially that his competition was strong and ruthless – Bofur’s dimples were almost impossible to go against and four out of five times he’s won Dis’s hand in dance.

“Bofur?” The Hobbit was quite surprised at this development.

“Mum likes him,” Kili shrugged in response.

“He makes her smile,” added Fili. “No small feat, that.”

“With Da gone she was so alone…”

“… and Bofur is of a decent sort. Good with his pickaxe too...”

“… we figured he’s safe with her.”

 Afterwards the brothers kept dragging Bilbo from one table to another shoving bits of food ‘ _he had to try’_ into his hands and it took Bifur’s silently threatening presence for the two spoiled princes to finally leave him be.

By this point the Hobbit was exhausted and half-deaf from all the shouting. His plaits were half-undone, clothes rumpled, and his toes have been stepped on by an unknown number of shoes. It was a high time to go back to his room and sleep off the excitement.

And that was exactly what the Hobbit in question did.

 

*

 

When he woke up it was almost noon – the sun streamed into his bedroom through the windows forged into the side of the mountain. It was one of the many subtle ways in which Thorin Oakenshield tried to show his appreciation for the Company’s burglar. Just after he's agreed to stay in Erebor for the Winter, Bilbo was moved to the small suite of rooms that wouldn’t be any different than his previous ones, but for this one feature – actual windows with glass panes and curtains.

 _“You grew pale under the Mountain,”_ Thorin explained his reasoning behind the gift. _“From what I’ve observed Hobbits are like weeds, they need sun to grow. I would be very displeased if my burglar fell sick while in  my people's care.”_

Bilbo sniffed a bit at being compared to weeds of all things – if anything, he's rather imagined himself as a rosy tomato, - but took the gift without complaint, understanding that Dwarven brains were obviously stunted when it came to expressing any softer emotions. The Durins were exceptionally defective in that regard.

Surprisingly, Bilbo's headache wasn’t that bad considering sheer amount of mead and wine consumed the night before. His legs hurt something fierce, though. Probably because of all that dancing and toe-squashing.

There was a nice surprise waiting for him, however, after he’s washed his face in a bowl of water and wandered into the sitting room in search of food. He found it laid out on a small table in front of the lit fireplace: a tray of fresh bread and a vase of some deliciously smelling soup took the centre, accompanied by a pot of freshly brewed tea and a jar of golden honey.

But it all fell to the wayside as Bilbo’s sleepy mind registered one more addition to his room – rather big, richly dresses addiction that sat in his armchair by the fire, surrounded by pipe smoke, with its eyes focused on the flames.

“Oh… good morning?”

It was not the first time Thorin has invited himself for a meal and Bilbo never really held it against him. They were both busy during the day and there was little to no opportunity to meet for a chat. After the Battle they promised to work on rebuilding their friendship, but it was hard when they couldn’t even see each other.

Shared meals quickly became their habit. Few times in a week Thorin could invite himself into Bilbo’s rooms or the library, or, instead, send a guard to bring the burglar to his own rooms for an hour, sometimes more. They would eat and talk about the current or past affairs – for some reason Thorin insisted that Bilbo’s insight and advice are valuable to him even if he rarely ever followed any of it. It was perfectly alright with the Hobbit; after all, Thorin was a ruler and his decisions affected more than himself, and Bilbo didn’t wish that kind responsibility. So he mainly listened, sometimes asked questions and gave advice when he thought it’s necessary. A few times he’s even managed to calm the King down after he went on a rant about the Elvenking and his kin.

Thorin for his part didn’t change that much in the span of one season. He was still stubborn and easy to anger, but someone who knew him well could see that the King was actively trying to keep his nerves in check. He put a lot of effort into making their shared meals pleasant – even when he was exhausted and angry, and the Mirkwood Elves were a bloody thorn in his side.

Bilbo appreciated the commitment and, for his part, tried to be useful and attentive. And it was all rather… nice, in the end. To be able to just sit and talk, share opinions and simply… be.

This meal was very quiet, but in a comfortable way. Thorin was mostly concentrated on his pipe and Bilbo paid close attention to the way his stomach responded to the soup. It would be very embarrassing to get sick in the presence of a freshly crowned King.

“I heard you’ve had fun,” The Dwarf spoke after a long while. “When my nephews weren’t trying to stuff you full of food, that is.”

Bilbo snorted at that. “They were taking their cues from you, I’m afraid,” he joked, carefully sipping the hot tea. “Is it a thing all Durins do? Trying to fatten up their friends?”

“It may be. You look better than you did before, burglar.”

“Thank you, Your Highness, I appreciate the complement.”

He did look batter. He was still pale from spending so much time in the library, but his sides started to round up nicely once more and his hands weren’t so horribly thin anymore. Dwarven food was filling, even if a bit too spicy for Hobbit’s taste, and it clearly did what it was supposed to do – gave him energy to use daily and a small reserve for harsher times.  

“So,” Bilbo continued a bit quieter this time. “How it feels to be a King Under the Mountain?”

Thorin shifted under his stare; he put out his pipe and turned to the table, reaching for a cup of tea Bilbo prepared for him. His regal face was closed off – or simply lost. When he answered, it was, surprisingly, with his own question.

“How do you see me on the throne?”

It was one of those strange, backwards questions the King liked to ask him from time to time and Bilbo rarely ever had an answer ready for any of them. He was a simple being with simple priorities, not prepared to solve the conundrums that plagued kings and wizards.

Before he even managed to find words that wouldn’t embarrass him, Thorin changed the subject. “It’s of no importance.” He sat back in the chair. “I came here to talk about other things. The Winter is over and I promised to escort you home, my friend.”

Oh, _that_.

“It can wait, you know,” Bilbo waved the concern away. “There’s still so much to do around the Mountain, and it would make no sense to send your soldiers away with me. I can wait on Gandalf and go home with him.”

Even if he missed his hole in the ground fiercely, he was willing to wait. Thorin needed every pair of hands Erebor had to spare.

However, instead of an understanding nod, Bilbo was met with an intense blue stare that stopped him from any further excuses. Thorin was looking at him over the table without an ounce of humour in his gaze, as if he expected the Hobbit to catch on to something obvious that was escaping him. Something…

Oh.

_Oh!_

“Oh no, you… you can’t!” Bilbo sprung up from his chair, suddenly unable to speak in full sentences. “You..? I mean, it’s stupid, Thorin, you can’t!”

“I promised,” the King answered calmly.

“No! You can’t leave now! You… you were _crowned_ three days ago, for goodness sake! Surely kings have other things to do than escorting Hobbits through the mountains!”

There was humour in the Dwarf’s eyes and a soft smirk on his lips. “And how would you know, Master Hobbit, about the duties of a king?”

“By now I know three of your bloody sort, thank you very much!” Bilbo folded his arms and tried to look cross. “And none of the other two is as aggravating as you!”

“Nonetheless I promised to get you home safely, Bilbo, and I will see to it.”

“But…” the use of his name rendered Bilbo speechless for a moment. It was a rare thing for Thorin to use it at all. “But you are needed here… Erebor needs a King!”

“No, Bilbo, my people need a King,” was the calm answer. “And most of my people are left in Ered Luin; the rest is scattered all over Eriador.”

“So you will go and collect them one by one?” It was supposed to sound teasing, but in the end genuine curiosity took over.

“If that’s what it takes, then yes, I will.”         

Bilbo could feel his hands shake; his heartbeat speed up and he started to feel lightheaded. He had to lean on the table and rub his aching forehead. A tiny quiet “Why?” escaped him. “Why would you do it so soon after regaining your home?”

Why would you abandon it all over again, he wanted to ask. Why would you leave the safety of Erebor for another dangerous journey?

“You know the reason,” Thorin looked at him with a sad kind of acceptance in his eyes. “You experienced it first hand, I may add.”

At that, Bilbo’s blood run cold.

“But you’re better now!” he moved to stand in front of the King, trying to cut down the anxiety growing in his belly. “The gold fever has passed! You are healed.”

“My dear burglar.” There was something rare and tender in the way the Dwarf took his hand and squeezed it gently, something sad and resigned in his gaze as he confessed quietly: “I will never be healed.”

A sob tore through the silence that fell in the room and it took Bilbo a long moment to realise that it came from him.

“The gold calls to me, Bilbo; I can hear it when I sleep. It’s not as strong as it was,” Thorin hurried to assure in a steady voice that didn’t have any right to be this calm. “But it’s there all the same. I take pride in fighting it, my friend, but… _it’s there_. And I fear that one day my defences will grow weak, that I will grow complacent and won’t know the fever when it clouds my mind once more.”

It was crashing down on Bilbo: the horrid memories and even worse knowledge that it was not over yet. That it may _never_ be over for his friends… that the worst enemy they fought was a one they couldn’t defeat once and for all.

Weakened, he fell down and a strong arm was there to gentle his fall, it kept him close to the King he could not save from himself.

“After all… we did.” Bilbo whispered with his forehead resting on the Dwarf’s knees, feeling that warm hand cradling the side of his head. “After all that… we did it for…”

“Not for nothing,” Thorin cut in before he could finish. “My people have their home back. We gave them a future that’s less bleak. And that comforts me more than anything.”

“But there has to be something that can be done to… has to!”

“Time will hopefully blunt the edges of the sickness. Time and purpose. Don’t worry, my dear burglar, I leave my Mountain in capable hands. Dis will make a good Queen. My sister is strong headed and stubborn, but has patience that I always seemed to lack. And, most of all, her heart is already taken,” Thorin revealed silently and a bit sadly. “A part of it died with Dari and the rest went to her sons. There’s no place left in it for gold and jewels.”

It was all so awful. So unjust.

“Do not despair for me. I have a purpose and a home to go back to. In that I am more fortunate than many less flawed Dwarves.”

No, it was horrible!

“You are Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo insisted, staring at the floor with glassy eyes and a wry smile on his trembling lips. “Nothing can defeat you!”

He’s got a chuckle in reply.

“Don’t believe in everything my nephews tell you, Mister Baggins, their imagination soars high.”

“But their admiration is hard to win.”

“…is yours?”

What?

Bilbo twitched when he felt a gust of warm air on his ear and he peeked from between his fingers to see the reason – and then he felt a blush rising to his cheeks. Thorin was leaning down, cradling Bilbo in his lap. It was warm, so very warm, and, regardless of the sad subject of their conversation, he felt safe this way.

“I will take you home, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, for I should’ve never taken you away from it. I do not regret your presence on this quest, but I regret all the pain you went through because of it.”

“Thorin…”

“It’s the least I can do to repay my burglar for his loyalty, honor and his willing heart.”

“Oh… alright then. You stubborn Dwarf.”

It would seem that he was going home at the end of this journey after all – even if the journey of his King has barely begun.       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And don't kill me, please, but I couldn't. I wanted to end it on a happy note, with Bilbo and Thorin living happily ever after, but my sense of reason and consequence didn't let me. I don't think that Gold Sickness can be cured, and my treatment of Thorin reflects that - and I think that the moment ha came to that conclusion himself is a step in a good direction. 
> 
> All in all, this kind of ending creates a setup for a second part of this little 'verse:) Because it is only fair to pick on Hobbits and their crazy rituals now, right? Besides, there's an unfinished business with a razor and some more angst and fluff to squeeze into all placesXD


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